


Better Than I Know Myself

by Vague_Shadows



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcoholic Sheriff, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, Hurt!Stiles, M/M, Physical Abuse, Protective!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m in no need of a knight in shining armor,” Stiles interrupts.  “Thank you for your concern, kind sir,” he adds with a flourish of his hand and mocking bow of his head. </p><p>“And I think I got it covered if the need arises,” Matt adds, sliding into the seat beside Stiles and throwing an arm across his shoulders.  </p><p>“Right,” Derek says, feeling more idiotic by the minute.  “Sorry to bug you or whatever.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - Derek

**Author's Note:**

> Worked based on prompt from Codarra for his beta work in Desolate.

            “Bilinski will show you your locker and get you some gear,” Coach informs Derek as they walk into the locker room. 

            He gestures vaguely in the direction Derek should go before retreating to his office.  Derek sees the label on the door declaring it the “equipment room” and assumes the kid lazily sterilizing sweaty shoulder pads is Bilinski.  He’s got his iPod in, mouthing along the words to some song with far too much enthusiasm.  Derek raps on the door, but the noise doesn’t carry over the music it seems.  He reaches to tap the guy’s shoulder, and is thoroughly unprepared for him to jolt back like he’s been shocked , immediately raising his hands as though readying to block blows.

            _Team punching bag?_ Derek wonders.

            “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bilinski demands, fear transforming into irritation.  “Trying to scare the shit out of me or what?”

            “No.”

            “What d’you want?”

            “I need a locker and pads and stuff,” he answers.  “Coach said to ask you.  I’m guessing you’re Bilinski, right?”

            The kid huffs out an annoyed laugh. “No, there is no such person as Bilinski,” he informs Derek.  “I’m _Stilinski_ —Stiles though. I go by Stiles, not that you care.”

            “I’m Derek.”

            “Hale?”

            “Yeah, how’d you—”

            “Dude, I thought the guys were just fucking with me when they said you were transferring here.”

            Derek’s well aware that he’s good at lacrosse.  He’s been a state all-star two years in a row, going for three in his senior season.  The coach was beyond thrilled to meet him when he came with his sister for the tour of the school. But it’s still weird to have some strange kid at a new school know exactly who he is. 

            “You’ve got the best scoring record since—”

            “I know,” Derek interrupts, not wanting to hear Stiles run through his stats.

            “Right, yeah, sorry,” Stiles says, deflating in disappointment. “You know. You were there,” he says with an awkward shrug.  “I’ll just—find some decent pads and shit for you or whatever.  You can go find a locker; all the unclaimed ones are unlocked.”

            Derek nods and walks away, leaving Stiles to his searching. 

 

*******************************************************

 

            By the time Derek’s able to escape Finstock’s insane attempt at a motivational speech for his transition to Beacon Hills, there’s only two guys left in the shower.  Stiles and some other underclassman he hasn’t met yet. He keeps his eyes to himself—locker room etiquette and all—but he still catches a glimpse of the bruises all over Stiles’ torso.  That team punching bag theory is looking more and more solid.  Unless it’s something worse—bad home life maybe?  It’s none of Derek’s business, but he can’t exactly ignore it either.

            He doesn’t want to say anything in front of the other kid—Matt he hears Stiles call him later—so he tries to catch up to Stiles in the parking lot.  He realizes he won’t get a chance to say anything when Matt walks Stiles to his car and kisses him goodbye. 

            _Boyfriends?_

Derek can’t help wonder if this is what led to the bruises, but he really hopes not. 

            Regardless, he can’t do anything but watch Stiles’ car as he pulls out of the parking lot.  Any attempts to try and maybe offer some help will just have to wait.  Maybe it’s nothing so bad as he thinks anyway.  Maybe he’s just reading too much into it.  He does kind of have a tendency toward pessimism.

            _Maybe I’m totally wrong._

But he doesn’t think so.

 

****************************************************************

 

            “Stiles, right?” Derek asks plopping down at the table across from him; down at the end another of the underclassmen players—McCall?—is apparently attempting to suck the face off a girl Derek hasn’t met yet.

            “I don’t deal with equipment bullshit ‘til practice,” Stiles replies immediately. “You’ll just have to wait to bitch about—”

            “I’m not asking about equipment shit.”

            “Oh. Then what d’you want?”

            “Just—needed a place to eat lunch.”

            “I think _that_ is the table you’re looking for, dude,” Stiles replies, gesturing toward the spot where Jack Whittlemore and his friends are gawking at Derek like he’s sprouted a third head. 

            “No, I’m good. I just thought I’d—”

            “Hazing?” Stiles asks.  “You lost a bet? Really lame dare? What?”

             “No, I—was going to ask if—”  he hesitates, unsure if now’s the moment to say anything. 

            “If what?” Stiles demands. “If—”

            “If you were okay,” Derek blurts before Stiles can continue to mock what he’s clearly assuming is some not-so-clever prank on Derek’s or the other players’ part. 

            “Okay?” Stiles repeats.

            “Yeah.”

            “Whatever the joke is, I’m missing it.”

           “It’s not a joke. It’s a question. Are you okay?”

           “Why the hell would you ask me that?”

           “I just—you seemed really bruised up and I thought maybe—”

          Stiles throws his head back in laughter, and Derek fights the urge to punch him—funny since he’s been worried the kid was getting beat up on.

_I’m trying to be nice, you little shit._

           “Sorry, dude,” Stiles says, reining in the laughter.  “It’s cool of you to ask or whatever, but you realize I’m like the worst player on the team? Well, except Greenburg.  Of course I’m bruised as hell.”

          “So then you’re not—”

           “I’m in no need of a knight in shining armor,” Stiles interrupts.  “Thank you for your concern, kind sir,” he adds with a flourish of his hand and mocking bow of his head.

           “And I think I got it covered if the need arises,” Matt adds, sliding into the seat beside Stiles and throwing an arm across his shoulders. 

           “Right,” Derek says, feeling more idiotic by the minute.  “Sorry to bug you or whatever.”

          “No problem.”

          Derek picks up his tray and walks away, heading for the empty chair next to Danny. 

 


	2. Chapter 2 - Stiles

            In what is one of his surprisingly good coaching decisions, Finstock pairs his best and worst players to run drills.  Stiles is pretty sure that it’s mostly to boost the first strings ego—like they need any help with that—but, hey, he’ll take some pointers and healthy competition.  Maybe he’ll get Danny; Danny’s pretty okay.

            “Bilinski!” Finstock shouts.

            _Not Jackson. Not Jackson. Not Jackson._

“You’re with Hale. Start at the tires and work your way around.”

            _Ah, fuck._

Derek seems to have bought Stiles excuse that his bruises are all from lacrosse.  To be fair, most of them are.  Only like two—three tops—are Matt’s fault; it’s not so bad.  Stiles doesn’t want Derek poking his nose in Stiles’ life; having one person know so much is already a problem.  He damn sure doesn’t want to get Matt pissed—with the shit he’s got on Dad—for something that’s totally manageable.  It’s also not going to help Matt’s general dislike of Derek to watch him work with Stiles all afternoon.  There’s a lot Stiles can learn from Derek though, so he focuses on that silver lining as they pair off for drills.

            First time through the tires he falls flat on his face.  He expects Derek to laugh but he doesn’t.  He rolls his eyes as his hauls Stiles up with a huff. 

            “ _Focus_ ,” Derek tells him.

            “I _am_ focusing.”

            “Not you’re not.  You’re distracted.  Concentrate on moving your feet.”

            “I can multi-task.”

            “Apparently you can’t.”

            “Look we’re not all big super star players with a—”

            “ _Focus_ ,” Derek insists again. 

            “I—”

            “Close your eyes, deep breath, do it again. Don’t let anything in your head but moving your feet.”

            “I—”

            “Humor me,” he persists, and Stiles gives in with a huff.

            “Fine,” he replies, crossing his arms.

            He takes in an exaggerated breath, lets it out, and moves to run again.  Derek stops him, slapping a hand against Stiles’ chest, and Stiles winces just a little as his palm make contact over a bruise.

            “Like you mean it,” Derek insists.

            “Oh my _god,_ you take this way too seriously.”

            “Then you don’t take it seriously enough.  Your mind’s going about a billion miles a minute.  Stop thinking so much; just calm it the fuck down, and _focus._ ”

            Stiles stops himself from gaping at Derek, but only just.  Everyone else makes light of his inability to focus by saying stupid shit about “distracted by shiny objects” or Jackson’s general harangue of “how stupid do you have to be to suck at running, Stilinski?”  But Derek’s not quite assume that.  He’s not asserting Stiles’ genius or anything, but there’s no insult in the words, not really, just a critique.

            “Fine,” Stiles agrees again. 

            This time he does truly humor Derek, shutting his eyes as he takes in the breath.

            _Feet up. Move quick. Feet up. Move quick._

 _Holy shit this is actually kind of working,_ he thinks just as he trips on the last two tires.

            “Well,” Derek says.   “It’s an improvement.”

            “Fuck off.”

            “Again,” Derek replies, unaffected, jogging back to the start of the course and moving easily through.  “Focus.”

            “If you tell me to focus one more time,” Stiles mutters grumpily.

            But by the time the coach tells them to move to practicing shots Stiles has made it through without tripping five times in a row.

 

**********************************************************

 

            “Looked like you and Hale got along pretty well today,” Matt comments when they go for food after practice.

            “Yeah, guess so; he’s not as much of an ass as the rest of first string.”

            Matt’s fishing; Stiles knows he is.  It’s not the first time either.  Matt’s maybe one of the most jealous people Stiles has ever met.  There’s something flattering in the adoration, in Matt’s frequent “Can’t handle the thought of you with anyone else,” but Stiles is getting more and more annoyed that almost any talk with anyone of either gender that lasts more than five minutes and doesn’t include Matt gets them to this point: Stiles explaining himself when he shouldn’t have to, and Matt taking in the words with a look that’s a weird mix of suspicion and apprehension.

            “You think he likes you?”

            “I think he hates me less than Jackson.”

            Matt huffs a little laugh at that.  “Everyone hates you less than Jackson,” he teases, and he runs a hand up Stiles’ arm as he continues, “and no one loves you more than me.”

            Stiles smiles at the genuineness of the statement and at the invitation in Matt’s eyes at the words.  He stands, grabbing Stiles’ hand, and they go out to Matt’s car, leaving Stiles’ Jeep in the lot. He drives up to the lookout; they fog up the windows; and Stiles goes down on Matt, loving the way Matt moans out how perfect Stiles’ mouth is, how good Stiles is, how much he loves him, finally coming with a euphoric cry, shooting all over Stiles’ torso.  The sounds of his pleased lover never fails to get Stiles hard; he’s always been almost embarrassingly responsive to auditory stimulus in moments like these.   Matt takes him in hand, coaxing him up to his orgasm with filthy promises whispered in his ear, muffling the sound of Stiles’ climax with a deep kiss.

 

***************************************************

 

            “Need a ride?”

            Stiles lifts his head from under the hood of his Jeep to see Derek Hale waiting expectantly for an answer.

            “Thanks, but—uh—I’m good.”

            “You want me to take a look?” Derek wonders.  “I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about cars, but—”

            “I called the tow truck already,” Stiles tells him.

            _Like an hour ago._

“Oh. Okay.  Sure you don’t need a ride?”

            Matt won’t like it, but Matt’s at dinner with his grandparents and not answering his phone.  Stiles glances at his own mobile, realizing that by the time he gets in touch with Matt he’ll be past curfew.  He could call Dad, but there’s a 50/50 shot he’s too sauced to drive and come get him.  Derek’s the best option really; Matt can’t blame him for that. 

            “Actually, if it’s not too much of a pain in the ass, that would be awesome.  I can pay you gas money or something.”

            “Don’t worry about it, just hop in.”

            He joins Derek in sleek black Camaro, instantly envious as he takes in the spotless, nearly new interior.  Stiles may love his Jeep, but _damn_ this is nice.

            “Where to?” Derek asks as Stiles pulls on his seatbelt. 

            “Um, that way,” Stiles answers, and Derek pulls off in the direction he’d been heading before he stopped to help Stiles; Stiles hopes that means his house is kind of on the way home for Derek, and he really isn’t being too much of a pain.

            “So um—you like—uh—Beacon Hills or whatever?” Stiles asks, trying to fill the silence.

            “Sure,” Derek answers with a shrug.

            “Cool.”

            “Yup.”

            Derek reaches to turn up the radio, and Stiles takes it as his cue to quell the awkward small talk. 

            “Dude, Alt-J?! Seriously?” Stiles asks excitedly, unable to contain himself.

            “Problem?”

            “No, I fucking love them. I just—I dunno—I guess I pegged you as more of a rock kind of dude or something.”

            “I don’t hate rock,” Derek answers with another shrug, “but this is better.”

            “Hell, yeah it is.  Have you ever seen them live?”

            “Yeah, my sister got me tickets for my birthday last year.”

            “Are they awesome? I bet they’re fucking awesome.  I tried to talk Scott into going with me, but he bailed.”

            “What about your—uh—Matt or whoever?” Derek asks.

            _Really? Can’t even make yourself say the word boyfriend, dude? Come on.  You’re on the team with three gay guys.  You’re gonna have to get past that one._

“Matt’s my boyfriend,” Stiles says, looking for Derek’s reaction to the assertion, but Derek’s face doesn’t change.

            “Oh. Cool.”

            “And he’s pretty much exclusively a fan of screamo, heavy metal, and classical.”

            “Interesting mix.

            “Yeah, I guess.”

            “Next time they’re around here, we should go.  I don’t know anyone else who likes them either. It’d be cool.”

            “Definitely,” Stiles agrees, knowing Matt would be livid at just the thought, but hell, maybe he’d come too if Stiles bought his ticket.

            Stiles’ favorite song comes on then, thoroughly distracting him from the conversation and the fact this isn’t his car.  He reaches to crank the volume, singing along probably off-key but uncaring. He’s more than a little surprised when he realizes Derek’s singing along quietly too, though Derek rolls his eyes and stops when he sees Stiles noticing.

 

***********************************************************

 

            Stiles phone dings off the notification for a text from Matt:             “Hey, sorry I missed your calls.  I know it’s late, but can I come over?” 

            “Yeah sure, Dad won’t care,” Stiles replies, knowing Matt will understand the “Dad’s already out cold in the recliner” underneath the words. 

            “See you in ten.”

            Stiles heads downstairs to fix himself a bowl of cereal and wait for Matt to show.  It’s less than ten minutes, barely five actually, before Matt’s car pulls into the drive.  Dad stirs on the couch just slightly.  Stiles meets Matt at the door so he doesn’t call to be let in. He greets Stiles with a quick kiss and follows him upstairs to his room. 

            “Wanna watch a movie or something?” Stiles wonders. “Avengers is on Netflix now.”

            “Sure,” Matt answers with a shrug. 

            Stiles phone alights with a new message as he and Matt are settling on the bed.  Matt’s hand reaches it before Stiles’.  He frowns as he stares down at the screen.

            “Why is Hale texting you?”  

            “I dunno. Something about practice?”

            That’s the only reason Stiles has Derek’s number anyway. 

            “I didn’t get one,” Matt replies shortly, thumbing the screen to no doubt check the message himself. 

            “Maybe—”

            Matt’s hand smacks across Stiles’ face in the next moment. 

            “Why the fuck is he offering you rides to school? How does he even know your Jeep’s in the shop?”

            “Dude, it’s no big deal.  He saw me broken down on the road and offered to bring me home.”

            “No big deal huh?” Matt replies, shoving at Stiles who barely manages to regain his balance and keep his feet as he goes off the side of the bed. “Then why wouldn’t you mention it?”

            _Because you react like this whether I tell you sooner or later, so why rush to the fucking fight?_

“Matt, come on; it was nothing.  Just a ride home.  If you don’t want me to ride to school with him, I won’t.”

            “Damn right you won’t!”

            “Dude, there’s nothing to be jealous of; he’s not even g—”

            “Shut up!” Matt thunders.  “I am not jealous!”

            Stiles should’ve known better. He really should’ve.  How stupid does he have to be to forget the way Matt reacts to the mistake Stiles has made a million times?  His fucking mouth just gets ahead of his brain and screws him over all the time. 

            “I know; I know.  I didn’t—”

            He dodges the first punch but not the second one that lands right in Stiles’ gut and tries to grab Matt’s wrist to stop the swinging. 

            “Matt, quit it!”

            Matt wrenches his wrist away, backhanding Stiles so hard he tastes blood as his lip splits. It sets Stiles off, and he fights back.  He only gets in one good swing before Matt grabs his forearm and spins it behind his back, slamming Stiles against the bedroom wall. 

            “I don’t have to be jealous,” Matt hisses. “Because you’re not stupid enough to try and get with anyone else.”

            “No,” Stiles agrees, the admission sour in his mouth, but there’s no way to get around saying it. 

            Matt spins him around again, one hand coming up to Stiles’ face and he shies away before Matt touches his cheek gently. 

            “You know I love you, don’t you?”

            “Yeah, Matt, of course I know.”

            _You love me enough to lose your mind that I got in a car with another guy.  Love me enough to insist on being there for the rare chances I do get to hang out with Scott these days.  Love me enough that you ignore my Dad’s drinking and don’t tell the world—as long as I stay with you._

“I love you, too,” Stiles adds. 

_Well, I used to._

             Matt surges in for a kiss, too rough for Stiles’ injured lip, but Stiles doesn’t try to pull away.  Matt’s hands on him relax, running up and down Stiles’ chest and through his hair before finally resting on Stiles’ wrists and leading his hands to the top of Matt’s jeans. 

          “God, I want you so bad,” Matt says as Stiles starts to unbutton dutifully.  He hates himself for giving in right now, for letting the guy who just beat on him for no real reason into his bed, but it’s not like it won’t be good for Stiles. It’s not like Stiles hates sex with Matt; most of the time it’s fucking awesome. 

          He just kind of wishes he had the option to say ‘no’ sometimes.

 

***********************************************************

 

            Stiles walks Matt out after, trying to walk normally despite protesting muscles because Matt says he hates to see Stiles hurt.  What he means is that he hates to see Stiles _look_ hurt.  The hurting in itself doesn’t seem to cause Matt much pause.

            “Love you,” Matt murmurs, at the door, leaning in for a slow, lingering kiss.

            “You too,” Stiles agrees.  “Pick me up for school in the morning?”

            “Yeah, see you at a quarter ‘til.”

            “Thanks.”

            “You know I don’t mind; anything for you.”

            _Yeah, sure._

He leans against the door as he closes it behind Matt, closing his eyes against tears of shame and confusion and regret.  Dad’s snoring softly in the den, and Stiles reminds himself it could be worse, so much worse.  It could be someone else who knew about Dad’s addiction, someone who would ruin his career no matter who tried to stop them.  It could be someone who wanted money Stiles didn’t have to give.  It could be someone who wanted any number of things that would be so much worse than a relationship.  After all, most days Stiles is pretty sure Matt really does love him.  Some days Stiles even believes he still loves Matt back.

            _Don’t be a baby,_ he mentally berates himself as the tears begin to spill over.  _It’s not so bad. It could be worse._

 

 


	3. Chapter 3 - Derek

            “Hey, Stilinski,” Derek greets, walking over to his locker. “You need a ride home?”

            “Nah, Matt’s giving me a lift,” Stiles replies with a nod to his boyfriend who’s glaring daggers at Derek’s suggestion behind Stiles’ back.

            “Oh, cool, well I thought since you like Alt-J you might be into Tame Impala?”

            “I don’t think I’ve heard any of their stuff.”

            “Well, I—uh—burned you a copy of their last album.  If that’s not weird?” Derek asks, offering the disc.

            _God, I sound like such a dweeb right now. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

“Dude, no, that’s not weird! That’s awesome! Thanks!” Stiles answers, taking the CD excitedly; he winces as he smiles though, and a small trickle of blood comes from the crack in his lip.

            “That’s not from lacrosse,” Derek comments.  “What’d you do?”

            “Tripped and landed on my face,” Stiles answers with a grimace.  “Not so great with the coordination, ya know?”

            Derek rolls his eyes.  “Oh, I know,” Derek replies, remembering the practice at which Stiles managed to knock _himself_ out with a lacrosse stick.

            The warning bell rings, and Derek moves past Stiles to head toward third period.

            “Let me know what you think of them,” he requests as he leaves.

            “Yeah, sure thing,” Stiles replies.

 

***********************************************************

 

            Stiles never tells Derek what he thinks of the album.  In fact, he doesn’t tell Derek anything.  He avoids him in the hall, doesn’t talk to him at practice, and even when Derek tries to start conversations he barely replies before making a quick excuse to get away.  It’s confusing as hell to be honest.   

_I mean,_ _it’s not like disking the band would cause this much awkward evasion, right?_  

It’s not like they were anything more than acquaintances, though, so Derek doesn’t have much room to demand Stiles tell him what the hell is going on, so he just leaves it alone, assuming Stiles isn’t interested in a friendship with him and wondering if this means he’s lost a concert-buddy for next time Alt-J is around.

 

**************************************************************

 

            “So lacrosse is good,” Derek says quietly to his father.  “Finstock made me co-captain the other day, and Whittemore was _pissed_ ,” he adds with a laugh. 

            The cold marble headstone doesn’t laugh back, but Derek can still imagine his father’s smile, see the way the skin around his eyes crinkles to emphasize his crow’s feet. 

            “No way Noah would’ve been able to deal with this coach though; he’d’ve had to play basketball or something instead,” Derek adds, eyes glancing down the row to his brother’s resting place.

Noah would be a freshman this year.  Madison would be in seventh grade.  Dad would be going on and on about Derek making sure to keep his grades up to be sure he got a good scholarship for college.  Instead, Derek and Laura’s educations will be paid for in life insurance policies and home insurance payouts. 

It’s been four years since the fire.  Derek had assumed that when they left Beacon Hills they weren’t coming back, and he’s still not sure whether he’s glad they did.  Mom says they came back so she could keep an eye on Uncle Peter’s recovery, but Derek can see how happy she is to be back here, even if it hurts.  She grew up in this town.  It’s her home. She missed it.  If Derek has to deal with it for a while before college, that’s fine.  At least Mom won’t be stuck someplace she doesn’t really like all on her own when he moves out.

            “Mom seems glad to be back at the bank; a bunch of her old friends still work there.  She misses you, though, a lot.  She—”

            “Derek?”

            The voice catches him off guard and he turns quickly. 

            “Shit, sorry,” Stiles says.  “I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t’ve—sorry I bothered you. I’m an idiot.”

            “It’s cool.”

            Stiles is holding a bouquet of flowers and a birthday balloon.  He looks down at them and then up to Derek with an embarrassed shrug.

            “It’s—uh—my Mom’s birthday,” he says.  “I know it’s super lame but—”

            “I was telling my Dad about lacrosse,” Derek offers before he can stop himself.  “I get it.”

            _It’s not like you can talk to them anymore, but pretending helps sometimes.  The idea that they’re watching and still care and that somehow you didn’t completely lose them keeps you from going nuts._

Stiles smiles at Derek’s understanding, and Derek finds himself returning it.

            “You—you wanna meet her?” he asks with a smile.

            “Yeah, sure,” Derek agrees because he definitely doesn’t have the heart to say no.

            They walk to the rose colored stone in silence, but as soon as they stand at the resting place of Joanna Stilinski, loving wife and mother, Stiles starts talking easily like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

            “Hey, Mom, happy birthday.  Sorry the flowers are kinda crappy, but there wasn’t a whole lot to pick from at the store today.”

            Derek notices then that the flowers Stiles are replacing aren’t even fully dried out.

            _You come here a lot, don’t you?_

“This is Derek,” he goes on, standing once he’s tied the balloon in place. “He—uh—plays lacrosse with me but he doesn’t suck as much as me and Scott.”

            “He doesn’t suck that bad, Mrs. Stilinski,” Derek interjects before his brain can stop his mouth.  “ _If_ he remembers to focus.”

            Stiles looks at him, mouth gaping open, and Derek thinks for one horrible moment that he’s fucked up horribly by saying anything.  Then Stiles beams at him, really fucking beams, and the smile lights up the guy’s melancholy face and Derek’s stomach does a weird flip that means trouble for sure.

            _He has a boyfriend. He doesn’t even like you.  He’s been avoiding you for two weeks._

_But he’s not avoiding me now._

Stiles huff out a laugh. 

            “Yeah, she knows plenty about trying to get me to focus, huh, Mom? How many parent teacher conferences did you have to deal with?”

            Stiles chatters on for a little bit, telling his mother how he might actually get some playing time if the virus that’s been going around doesn’t let up, recounting how much more Harris hates him after he accidentally knocked the Bunsen burner over yesterday.

            “Dad—uh—Dad misses you too,” Stiles says, voice quieting as some of the vivacity leaves it.  “He says ‘hi.’”

            Stiles falls quiet, tears welling in his eyes for just a minute before he clears his throat and turns away.  “I’ll see you soon, Mom.  Love you.”  


 

*********************************************

 

            Stiles sets a quick pace back toward his Jeep.  He doesn’t look back to see if Derek’s following, so Derek hangs back in case Stiles wants time to himself.  He gets in his Jeep and attempts to start it, but the engine just sputters.

            “Dammit!”

            “I thought you just got it fixed?”

            “So did I,” Stiles retorts.  “It cost me like three hundred bucks and the damn thing still doesn’t fucking work!” he rants, slamming his fist into the steering wheel.

            “Want a ride home?”

            “No,” Stiles replies too quickly, and Derek tries not to look too offended at the immediate refusal.

            _Man, I have been nothing but nice to you. Come on._

“I mean—I—I’ll call the tow truck and Matt’ll swing by and—”

            “They lock the gates in ten minutes,” Derek replies with a glance down to his watch.  “I think your Jeep’s stuck ‘til tomorrow.”

            “No, I’ll just—I’ll—”

            “Did I do something to piss you off?” Derek asks finally.

            “What?” Stiles asks, clearly flabbergasted.

            “Did I like—weird you out or something? Because—”

            “No, dude, it’s not that; it’s—complicated.”

            “Complicated?”

            “Yeah, just—sorry.”

            “It’s whatever, man. I just don’t get it.”

            “It’s—” Stiles hesitates a long moment, studying Derek before he says.  “It’s Matt.”

            “What about Matt?”

            “He just—he got kind of jealous with the whole CD thing, and I didn’t want him to worry about anything. Not that you’re even into guys or you’d be into me if you were or any of that just—I didn’t want him to feel—”

            “You like him a lot, huh?” Derek asks with a grin.

            _You must if you avoided me like the plague for his peace of mind.  Guess this answers my wonderings about how close you two are._

            “Yeah,” Stiles replies with a small smile.  “I’m totally whipped, dude.”

            Derek huffs out a laugh.

            “I did really like that album though.  Tame Impala is officially on the new favorites list.”

            “Awesome! You owe me a CD now then.  I give you an awesome band; I want one back,” he realizes too late how pushy it sounds from a guy who Stiles has just admitted he’s trying to keep distance from.  “Never mind.  Sorry I—”

            “No, you’re right,” Stiles answers.  “Fair’s fair.  Tell you what.  I’ll take you up on giving me a ride home and see what’s on my iPod.”

            “Cool,” Derek answers, trying not to show how fucking pleased he is at the prospect.

 

********************************************************************

 

            “Fuck,” Stiles mutters quietly as Derek pulls to a stop on the curb outside his house.

            “That’s Matt’s car, isn’t it?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Look, I’m happy to tell him I just want to be friends with you if it’ll ease his mind or whatever.  I—”

            “Nah, it’s cool,” Stiles replies.  “Just—uh—don’t hate me if I don’t act like your best bud if I see you at school tomorrow?”

            “Sure.  Thanks for the music.”           

            “Thanks for the ride.”

            Derek puts the car in drive as Stiles jogs up to the front porch.  Matt comes out to meet him with a smile and a long kiss. Derek swears he catching Matt staring daggers after him in the rearview mirror, but maybe that's just his psyche coming up with excuses it would be okay to want Stiles for himself.

            _Fuck, I can’t break them up just because he’s  adorably uncoordinated and has fucking fantastic taste in music.  I can’t._

_But I could be a friend.  I could work on that.  It could be a thing maybe._

_Maybe._

_I hope so._

_That could be cool._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the encouraging reaction to this fic!! Y'all ROCK!!!


	4. Chapter 4 - Stiles

            “Matt, I can explain,” Stiles swears as the embrace goes on longer than it needs to; it’s not hard to guess it’s for Derek’s benefit not Stiles’.

            “Yeah, you fucking better,” Matt mutters, turning and storming back into the house now that Derek’s car is out of sight.

            “Matt, wait, look, I went to the cemetery to—”

            “I know,” Matt replies.  “It’s her birthday! Why the hell do you think I’m here? Because your Dad’s getting of work in an hour and he’s going to drink himself unconscious and I though you could use some company! Then you come home with _him_!? What the fuck?!” he demands, shoving Stiles back.

            Stiles trips on the edge of the rug as he stumbles backward; his side slams into the end table as he falls, hitting so hard it knocks the wind out of him for a second.  While Stiles attempts to regain his breath, Matt rants on.

            “You make me feel like such an idiot! Coming over here thinking I’d try to help you, be here for you, because I fucking _love_ you and didn’t want you to be alone, and I find out you’re sneaking around with him?! How could you do that?!”

            He kicks at Stiles with a roar of rage, and it’s so unexpected, so much angrier than Matt’s ever gotten before, that Stiles doesn’t even see it coming until Matt’s foot connects so hard he has to fight the urge to puke.

            He curls in protectively, but Matt kicks him onto his back again before straddling Stiles’ torso, his full weight on Stiles’ chest as his hands close around Stiles’ throat. Stiles chokes, hands coming up to try and claw Matt’s away.  The rage in his eyes is terrifying; there is nothing of the Matt that Stiles loves in the steely glare, just bone-chilling fury.

            “Matt, I can’t—” Stiles sucks in a painful gasp of air to finish, “can’t breathe, Matt.”

            For one terrible moment he doesn’t think Matt’s going to listen, thinks he’s about to have to fight for his life, but then Matt’s hands release and he scrambles off Stiles.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Matt says, face the perfect image of remorse.  “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—I can’t handle the idea of losing you.  I know that sounds pathetic, but it’s true.”

            “Matt—”

            “I love you, you know that?” Matt asks.

            Stiles is still on the floor, the persisting pain in his side keeping him from drawing full breaths or sitting up.  He shies back as Matt’s hands come toward his face, but Matt’s hands just frame it gently.

            “I love you,” he repeats.  “Please tell me you know that.”

Stiles wants to refute it.  He wants to retaliate and start round two despite his aching ribs.  He wants to walk away and never look back.

            But he can’t.  Not with Matt staring at him like this, eyes earnest and pained.  Everything Matt’s been through, feeling alone for so long, the panic that never goes away, finally being able to share it with Stiles.  He’s damaged, but he’s fixable.  Stiles has to give him a chance. Who else would? Not to even mention the hell that would rain down on Dad if Matt ever let the world hear his stories and see the pictures and videos on his phone of Dad’s worst nights. 

            “Yeah, I know,” Stiles replies wearily, “but this was too much Matt. You’ve got to stop—”

            “I will,” Matt swears.  “I promise. I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay.” 

            _Well, we’ll pretend it is._

“Come on,” Matt says, helping Stiles up on his feet. “I brought Monty Python _._ That always gets you laughing.”

 _Awesome.  Laughing with bruised ribs until Dad comes in to tell us to shut the fuck up.  What a lovely way to spend Mom’s birthday. She’d be so happy to see how well we’ve done without her,_ Stiles thinks bitterly, but he pastes on a smile and follows Matt upstairs.

 

           

 

***************************************************************

 

 

            Stiles hurries to the locker room once the final bell rings, hoping to get to the equipment room before anyone else is in there.  These ribs are going to take some work for sure.  He’s almost done taping them up, and he kept the curses to a minimum, when Derek Hale appears in the doorway out fucking nowhere.  Stiles jumps a bit, startled, and it draws out an involuntary hiss of pain. 

            “Why do you have to be such a creeper all the time, Hale?” he asks, annoyed.

“That’s not a lacrosse injury,” Derek says.

            “What the hell else would it be from?” Stiles counters. 

            “Who hurt you?”

            “The whole team, dude.  I suck. You’ve seen me play.  Don’t rub it in that I get the hell beat out of me at practice by the first string every—”

            “You wouldn’t have kept playing if you took a hit that hard.”

            “Fuck you. I’m tougher than I look.”

            _Most of the time._

“Who hurt you?” Derek repeats.

            “I’m _fine_ ,” Stiles insists.  “I don’t need some big shot lacrosse star to protect me because I’m the shittiest player on the team. I can hold my own.  Stop worrying about me. I’m a big kid; I can take care of myself.”

            “Stiles—”

            “Dude, I appreciate the worry or whatever, but it’s not a big deal.  If you make it a big deal, Coach won’t let me practice, and we both know I can use all the time on the field I can get.”

            Derek’s apparently not in the mood to go along with Stiles’ attempt to lighten the conversation. 

            “Stiles—”

            “It’s just lacrosse,” Stiles insists.  “If it bothers me too much, I’ll sit out practice, but I can handle myself, okay? You’re not my big brother or something.”

            The door to the locker room bursts open with a bang loud enough to make them both jump as four or five of their teammates come in.  Derek takes a quick step back, as though he didn’t realize he’d closed the space between them so much.  Stiles pulls his practice jersey back down to cover the tape and stands to head out of the equipment room, but Derek’s hovering in the doorway, blocking his path.

            “Hey, Stiles I need to swap out some—” Matt says, stopping short when he sees Derek in the door.  “Oh, hey, Hale.  Didn’t know you were waiting on something.”

            Stiles is careful to keep his face neutral despite the jolt of anxiety he feels when Matt glares at him behind Derek’s back. 

            _How am I supposed to control him? I can’t always keep him from talking to me.  Come on._

“Just needed to talk to Stiles about something,” Derek replies, “but we’re good.  See you on the field,” he adds to Stiles. 

            “Yeah,” Stiles agrees.  “What’d you need to swap out, Matt?”

            “My net’s fucked up; I’m gonna grab a sick to borrow and lace it up again later,” Matt replies as though there’s nothing else to talk about.

            “Oh yeah, you know where they’re at,” Stiles says with a gesture to the corner. “Help yourself.”

            “You wanna come over and hang out at my place after practice?” he asks.

            “I’ve got a bunch of homework to—”

            “Me too.  We’ll work on that project for Harris together.  Get done twice as fast, and Mom will totally cook when she gets home.  You should come.”

            The offer sounds harmless enough, but there’s an undercurrent in the tone that Stiles doesn’t like. 

            “Unless you’ve got plans with someone else,” Matt goes on.

            “No, I don’t. You know I don’t.”

            “Awesome,” Matt says with a smile.

            Stiles could argue.  He could insist on Matt taking him home instead of going over to Matt’s, but he decides it’s not worth the headache.  It won’t be so bad.  They’ll get some project work done; Matt’s mom is an awesome cook; it’ll be fine.

 

***********************************************************

 

            “Yesterday, Stiles!” Matt rages the moment the door shuts behind him. “We talked about this fucking _yesterday_!”

            “We didn’t _talk_ about it! You freaked on me without even—”

            His words cut off as he dodges Matt’s attempt at a backhand.  He moves to get past Matt so he can’t be cornered against the wall, but Matt shoots out an arm to block him and the pressure on Stiles’ ribs has him retreating.  Matt pins him easily enough back into the wall. 

            “Don’t you _dare_ try to turn this back on me,” Matt warns, voice low and dark and fucking scary. 

            “I’m not. I just—if you’d let me explain, it’s not that big of a—”

            “You said you wouldn’t talk to him. You said you—”

            “I needed a ride home.  He was headed that way anyways.  It was _one_ time!

            “Was it?”

            “Yes!”

            “Because you weren’t going to tell me about it before, you didn’t tell me two days ago, then today I see you two and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s something else going on here.  Can you blame me?”

            _Yes._

“It’s nothing, Matt.  I swear! It’s not a big deal!”

            “Not a big deal?! Not a big deal that I could be losing you? That you’re going behind my back to—”

            “I’m not going behind your—”

            “Don’t lie to me!” Matt commands, snapping completely, fingers digging into Stiles shoulders and shaking him roughly.  Stiles’ skull cracks back against the wall.  Matt backs off at the dull thud only to come back in swinging.  Stiles brings his hands down to deflect the first two blows Matt aims at his torso.  He tries to retaliate and push Matt back, but his blows are weak; he’s pretty sure the strain on his aching side leaves him hurt more than Matt after each one.  After just a few more swings, he abandons the attempt to fight back and focuses on shielding as much of his body as possible. 

            “Matt, stop! Stop it!”

            “You belong with me! Not him, you understand? If I can’t have you, no one can!”

            “Stop it! Come on, please!”

            Matt swings a right hook into Stiles’ unprotected face before he can get his hands up to deflect, and he’s only stopped from stumbling over by the next blow that comes from Matt’s left.  Stiles’ teeth clack together with the force of it, and he can feel the blood trickling down the side of his face from the broken skin at his temple.

“How could you do this? You fucking cheating—”

“I didn’t! I wouldn’t! I love you, Matt! Stop it!”

            “I said don’t lie to me!” Matt rages, and this time his fists connect solidly, one after the other, right where the kick landed did last night. 

            Stiles knees buckle as pain so intense he can barely bear to breathe surges through him. 

            “I’m not,” he gasps.  “I’m not lying, Matt, stop. Please, stop. I can’t—I can’t—”

            All communication cuts off because the need to breathe overshadows it.

            “Oh God, Stiles, it’s okay,” Matt says gently.  “It’s okay. Just breathe. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I lost my temper. I’m sorry.”

            “Something’s wrong.  Really wrong, Matt. I can’t breathe.”

            “Maybe it’s just a panic attack.  Maybe—”

            “It fucking _hurts_. It’s not a panic attack. It’s— _fuck—_ I don’t know. I think it’s my ribs?”

            “It’s okay,” Matt soothes poorly. “You’re okay, just—calm down.  Try to take a deep breath. Just—”

            “Can’t!”

            “Fuck, fuck,” Matt mutters. “Shit, Stiles, look at you.”

            _I don’t have to look to know what you did.  I can fucking feel it, Matt._

“ER,” Stiles requests. “I won’t tell—swear—ER—please?”

            “Yeah, yeah, sure. Uh—come, come on.”

 

*******************************************************

 

            He’s got two cracked ribs, a busted lip, new bruises forming all over his torso, and a gash in his temple.  He looks like shit.  He feels like shit.  He’s just ready to fucking go home, but they can’t release him without a parent, which killed any hope he had that they wouldn’t call his Dad about this.  Matt dutifully promises to stay until his dad arrives, and Stiles wants to shake the nurse for the sweet smile she gives him at being such a supportive boyfriend.   For the next twenty minutes, Matt’s the excellent image of an attentive partner.  It’s all Stiles can do to keep the scowl off his face.

            “Stiles?! Where the hell is my son?” he can hear his father call down the hall. 

Moments later Dad’s rushing in, worried eyes sweeping Stiles to assess the level of injury himself.  Coming forward immediately to put a hand on his son’s shoulder, look him in the eyes and demand, “Who did this?”

“I don’t know, Dad, just some kids from school.”

“Who? I want names. I want descriptions. I will make _sure_ those little bastards—”

“Dad, it’s okay!” Stiles insists, hating himself for loving how protective Dad is in this moment. 

“It’s not okay, son; look at you!”

“I’ll be fine. It’s not a big deal.  Can we go home now? Please?”

Dad looks like he wants to argue.  Knowing the sheriff in him, he likely wants to keep at the interrogation until he gets the answers he wants, but Stiles can’t give them.  In the end, his father must empathize with the exhaustion Stiles feels. 

“Yeah, kiddo, we can go home,” he replies with a sigh.  “We’ll talk about it later.  Matt, can you speak with Deputy Jones on the way out? She’s out in the waiting room.  I’ll have one of the deputies come by the house to get your statement, Stiles.”

“Thanks, Dad.” 

 

*********************************************************

 

            “They teach self-defense at the station,” Dad says as they drive home.  “It’s a Saturday thing, so you won’t have to miss school.  Deputy Shrader teaches it. You remember him?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I’ll sign you up.”

            “Dad, my ribs won’t heal for—”

            “I know, but after—you should be able to defend yourself.”

            _Great.  Now you think your son’s a pansy on top of all your other reasons to hate me_ _._

“I know how to defend myself.”

            “Well, apparently not well enough.  I don’t want another call like that again, Stiles.  To have the ER say my son’s been in a fight and they’re taking X-rays to see the damage? You almost gave me a heart attack.”

            “Don’t joke about heart attacks.”

            “Stiles, my heart is fine.”

            “The nurse at the station told you—”

            “This conversation isn’t about me!” Dad barks.  “It’s about you, and the fact that you are going to learn to protect yourself.”

            “Dad, it’s _one_ time. It’s not a big deal.”

            “You are taking the goddamn classes, Stiles. End of discussion.”

            “Fine.”

            “And keep Matt or Scott with you until your ribs are healed enough.”

            It’s all Stiles can do to bite back a bitter laugh at the suggestion.  

            “Yeah, Dad,” he agrees.  “Sure.”

 

*********************************************************

 

 

            Stiles is downstairs on the couch even though he’d rather be upstairs in bed because Dad is sober as a judge—well, he’s sipping a glass, but not much—and they’re watching _Forrest Gump_ for about the millionth time, but it’s kind of nice.  This is how they spent tons of sick days when Stiles was a kid, hanging out and watching TV.   Dad made grilled cheese and tomato soup for supper, an easy mutual favorite.   As fucked up as it sounds, it’s actually kind of turned out to be a decent night.

            And then the doorbell rings. 

            _Motherfucker._

“Hi, Matt,” Dad greets as he opens the door.  “Come on in.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Hey, Stiles,” Matt greets. “I—uh—Mom made ravioli, and I know it’s your favorite, so I thought I’d drop some by and see if—if you were okay and everything.”

            “I’m fine,” Stiles replies wearily.  “Just tired, and thanks, but we ate supper already.”

            “Oh.”

            “It was thoughtful of you to bring it by, though,” Dad says. “I’ll—uh—stick it in the fridge and give you two a second?”

            “Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says because ‘no don’t leave me alone with him’ isn’t an option.

            “Stiles,” Matt starts, moving forward.

            “Don’t,” Stiles replies.  “Just don’t.”

            “It won’t happen again. I just—I thought maybe I was losing you and I just lost fucking mind.”

            _Yeah, tell me something I don’t know._

“You don’t have to worry about losing me, Matt. I’m not going anywhere.”

            _I can’t._

 

 


	5. Chapter 5 - Stiles

Matt’s remorse lasts for a solid two days, all his touches tender and every other sentence when they’re alone an apology.  Stiles isn’t dumb enough to assume it will last.  He still avoids Derek—avoids everyone for that matter.  Scott wants to come over and hang out, but Stiles doesn’t need his pity attention, so he tells him not to bother.  He regrets the decision when he’s stuck alone in his room with no one because Matt’s at his grandparents for weekly dinner and Dad’s on his fourth glass of whiskey and nothing near good company at this point.  Then again, Matt wouldn’t have liked the idea of Scott and Stiles hanging out alone—no matter how many times Stiles has sworn there’s nothing romantic there—and it probably wasn’t worth the fight, however agreeable Matt may be at the moment.

It’s nearly ten when Matt asks if he can come over, and the combination of fear at refusing and loneliness of the night have him saying yes, though he knows the only thing Matt will want if he’s arriving this late.  Sure enough, they’re barely ten minutes into _The Departed_ when Matt presses a gentle kiss to Stiles’ uninjured temple.

“I love you,” he says quietly.  “So fucking much.”

“I love you too.”

Matt kisses him again, still gentler than he’s ever been as his tongue sweeps inside  Stiles’ mouth.  It’s sweet and electrifying, but it makes Stiles feel like he’s accepting an apology, and he doesn’t want to.  He doesn’t want to forgive and forget.  He doesn’t ever want to lie to the hospital staff while the guy who wailed on him stands by, the perfect imitation of a supportive boyfriend.

But there’s no fighting this, not really, and Matt really is sorry, even if the sentiment is too little too late. 

_Maybe, just maybe, he means it when he says it won’t happen again.  Maybe seeing how bad his temper gets when he doesn’t keep it in check is enough to make him rein it in. Maybe it’ll get better from here, not worse; maybe it’ll start things back to how good they were when this whole thing started—notes in my locker and occasional double dates with Scott and Allison and hookups that I start and hiking out through the preserve on weekends—maybe it really is okay._

That’s the hope Stiles locks into as he kisses back, enjoying the languid pace.  It’s going better than he thought; his ribs don’t hurt _too_ badly.  Once Stiles’ shirt is off, Matt kisses every bruise, even the ones that really are from lacrosse and clumsiness, looking up at Stiles with wide, mournful eyes.

 _Maybe it really is okay,_ Stiles thinks again, and as though the universe knows just the moment to knock him back down, Matt takes that moment to reach for the lube in the nightstand drawer.

“Matt, come on,” Stiles says.  “Seriously?”

“What?”  
“I have two cracked—”

“I wanna be close to you,” Matt interrupts, leaning in for a kiss, “Is that so bad?”

“But—”

“If it hurts you, just say so, and I’ll stop; I swear.”

Stiles doesn’t trust the promise. If Matt’s this reluctant to stop now, he’ll be even more so the farther they go.

“I wanna suck you off,” Stiles counters, licking his lips and getting the gleam in Matt’s eye he was hoping for.  “Can we do that instead? Please?”

“Yeah, sure, baby, whatever you wanna do.”

_If only you meant that._

 

********************************************************************

 

            Things aren’t as great as they used to be, but they’re back to the point where Matt only loses his cool every now and then.  Stiles can take a backhand here or there.  It’s not that big of a deal.  Life goes on; everyone soon forgets he was the loser who got himself beat up; Matt’s talking about plans for Stiles’ birthday, maybe a weekend hiking and camping out on the preserve.

            It all threatens to go to hell again the moment Stiles walks into the first Saturday of the self-defense class.  Derek Hale stands at the front of the room with Deputy Schrader, and Stiles fights the urge to take off running just at the sight of him.  He has to stay though because Dad’s sure to ask the deputy how Stiles did; plus Dad’s on duty today. There’s no telling whether or not he’ll stick his head in to check the progress himself. 

            _Matt doesn’t have to know.  How would he even find out?  It’s one day in a room full of people. This is no different than lacrosse practice. It’s fine._  

“Okay,” Schrader says once he and Derek have demonstrated some basic rules.  “So we’re going to pair off the class to do some sparring exercises.  Derek and I will come around if you have any questions or we can give any pointers.”

            Stiles is paired with the girl next to him, Mindy.  She’s younger than him, but she’s doing pretty well until Derek comes near.  Then she dissolves into clumsy moves and giggles.

            _Jesus Christ._

“Oh, gosh, I’m such a clutz,” she laments with an exaggerated huff. 

            “You’re not so bad,” Derek says encouragingly.  “Just keep your focus; that’s the main thing. Right, Stiles?” he asks.

            Stiles hates Derek for the dazzling smile he gives like the comment is their little inside joke on Stiles improvement at lacrosse with Derek’s help. He hates the way Derek’s being so encouraging.  He hates that he has absolutely no reason to detest Derek, but he’s going to pretend he does anyway because it’s just easier that way.

            “Sure,” Stiles replies curtly, and he doesn’t miss the slightly injured look on Derek’s face at the attitude; he feels instantly guilty.  It’s not Derek’s fault Matt’s so fucking jealous.  “I mean—yeah, yeah just don’t let your head get in the way of it.  Just think about the movements.  Focus,” he advises the girl, though he’s pretty sure her lack of focus is much more hormonal than mental.

            “Here, watch me with Stiles,” Derek offers.  “Work into a rhythm, like Deputy Schrader and I were talking about.  Once you focus and find a groove, you can do some damage.  Remember though, the point is to get in enough blows for you to get away to help and safety.”

            “Right,” she agrees. “Thanks, Derek, maybe you should show me—”

“That’s great form, Ms. Tilner!” Derek praises, not-so-subtly dodging the apparently unwanted attention much to Mindy’s chagrin.

            It’s all Stiles can do to withhold a laugh when Derek shoots him a relived look as Mindy turns away.

******************************************************

           

Stiles stomach clenches at the sound of the doorbell; they aren’t expecting anyone, and Dad’s at work.   Half of Stiles’ nightmares involve this scenario: opening the door to see a deputy there waiting to tell him Dad’s not coming home.

            “Want me to get it?” Matt asks, and Stiles can only nod.

_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

“Hale?”

“Hey, Matt, Stiles left his phone at self-defense class this morning.  I know the sheriff doesn’t get off for another couple of hours, so I figured I’d just drop it by on my way home.”

“Thanks,” Matt says with chillingly convincing gratitude.  “I’ll give it to him when he’s out of the shower.  I’m sure he’ll really appreciate you dropping it off.”

Stiles thinks for a moment of sprinting into the foyer, letting Derek see him, see that Matt’s lying, shout that whatever he tells the nurses is going to be a lie.  Instead, he runs in the other direction, taking the stairs two at a time as he bolts upstairs.  He’s barely got the bathroom door shut when he hears Matt following.

“Stiles?” he calls.  “Where’d you go?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, just clicks the lock on the door and backs away, wishing he’d darted in his room instead; the windows in there are big enough to climb out.

“Stiles?” Matt calls again, and from the sound of it he’s at the top of the stairs. 

It’s not long before he’s knocking on the bathroom door.  “Stiles? What the fuck? Are you okay?”

“I didn’t know he was helping teach the class,” Stiles says.  “It wasn’t a big deal; he was just there. Like lacrosse practice, I—”

“You thought I was going to hurt you?” Matt says.  “I thought you said you forgave me for that? You know I didn’t mean to. I don’t want to hurt you, Stiles.”

The wounded sound in Matt’s voice has Stiles unlocking the door and opening it slightly.

“You’re not pissed?”

“I told you that wouldn’t happen again,” Matt answers sweetly.

Just as Stiles lets his guard down and relaxes at the words, Matt pushes his full weight against the door.  It slams into the side of Stiles’ face, knocking him back and tearing a small gash above his left eye. As Matt tries to push in the space, Stiles rushes him, managing to get past and out into the hall, running for the stairs.  Matt latches onto his arm, yanking him to a halt. 

“Matt, come on, you just said—”

“I said it wouldn’t happen again,” Matt repeats. “And _you_ said there was nothing going on with you and Derek Hale,” he snarls as he shoves.

Stiles tries to grab the banister one his way down, but he misses it by a mile, flailing as he tumbles down the stairs.  He lands at the bottom with an audible crack as his arm breaks .  He’s so distracted by the pain, by trying to right himself without injuring his arm further, that it take him a moment to react to Matt sauntering down the stairs, the dark look in his eyes unmistakable.  It gives Stiles goosebumps, and he’s on his feet and scrambling away in the next instant.  Matt tackles him from behind, and Stiles screams as his weight comes down on his fractured arm.  Matt pins Stiles’ good arm, using his free hand to rain down blows all over Stiles’ body.  Stiles kicks to buck up, unseating Matt for just a moment, getting in one good hit to Matt’s face that has blood spurting from his nose. 

“Matt, stop!”

Matt stands, but there’s no chance this is over because the fury in his eyes is only burning stronger.  The first kick goes into Stiles’ newly healed ribs; the second hits the top of his head as he curls in on himself. 

“Matt, please, stop it! Please!”

“Shut up! You lying, cheating whore! You deserve it!”

Stiles is losing track of the hits, concentrating instead on becoming as small a target as possible.

“I loved you! I fucking love you, and this is what I get. After everything you’re still hooking up with him. You’re still—”

“No! I’m not! I swear! I fucking swear, Matt; I love you. I wouldn’t!”

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me!” Matt roars, accentuating each word with a kick until he’s turned Stiles on his back and presses his foot over Stiles’ sternum with so much force Stiles can’t breathe.

“You belong with me! If I can’t have you, no one has you, Stiles! No one!”

Stiles struggles just a few moments longer before his vision goes black.

 

*******************************************************

 

            The first breath of air that comes back burns like fire in his lungs, but Stiles doesn’t fucking care.  He coughs as his lungs try to pull in too much air after their starvation.  His sore ribs are soon paying the price for the strain. 

            “It’s okay, Stiles. It’s okay. Just breathe,” Matt urges, and Stiles realizes it’s Matt’s hand on his shoulders and tries to get away.  “No, no, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m sorry, Stiles. God, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean—I just lost it—I don’t know what happened.”

            “You shoved me down the stairs and beat the shit out of me,” Stiles rasps unforgivingly, and Matt’s eyes darken.

            “You fucked Derek Hale,” he retorts shaking Stiles so hard his vision is spinning.

            “I didn’t! I swear, Matt, stop!”         

            “Shit, shit, I’m sorry. I just—I’m sorry, okay?”

            “Sorry enough to take me to the hospital?” 

            Stiles hopes the answer is yes because he’s pretty sure he couldn’t even stand on his own with the way the room is still whirling, much less drive himself to the ER with a broken arm.

            “You really think you need—”

            “You broke my arm!”

            Matt looks Stiles over, fear and remorse washing back over his face.  Stiles expects another round of apologies, until Matt’s face steels again. 

            “No, I didn’t.”

            “Yes, you—”

            “Someone broke into the house.”

            “What’re you—”

            “Someone broke into the house.  They kicked in the back door.  They had guns and we couldn’t do anything.  I tried to stop them,” he tells Stiles, eyes unfocused as he concocts the cover story, “I really tried, but they were after you.  They told you to tell your dad they said, ‘Hi.’”

            “No.”

            _We are not bringing Dad into this.  You are not going to make him think that any of this is his fault.  You’re not going to—_

“What did you say to me?” Matt demands.

            “I said—Fuck!” Stiles shrieks as Matt grips tightly around his broken arm.

            “Someone. Broke. Into. The. House.”

            “Fine! Fine, okay? Someone broke into the house!”

            “Stay here,” Matt orders.

 Stiles doesn’t have a whole lot of choice but to obey, however much he may hate himself for it. Matt disappears and Stiles hears the sound of destruction that must mean Matt’s staging the scene.  There’s no doubt they’ll come here to check the story.  Stiles finds himself hoping they’ll figure out that Matt’s lying, but the glimmer of hope only lasts a moment.  If Matt gets taken in, the first thing he’d do is use his knowledge of Dad’s drinking problem as a bargaining chip.  Dad doesn’t need that; he’s lost enough.  He’s stuck with Stiles now that Mom’s gone.  The only thing he has left to love is his job, and he’s good at it. Even if he is an alcoholic, he never lets it get in the way of his work.  He’s proud of what he does; the satisfaction of solving a tough case gets him in the only good moods he ever seems to have these days.  Stiles won’t take that away from him, and he’ll happily throw himself in the way of anyone else who would try.  

_Dad’s lost enough_ _._

So when Matt comes back, before asking Matt’s help to get out to the car, Stiles beseeches, “Make sure all the liquor’s put away? Please.”

 

**********************************************************

 

            Of course Stiles’ luck would mean the first nurse who sees him is Melissa McCall.

            “Stiles?! Oh my God, what happened?”

            He knows he looks like hell.  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the car window—nose and mouth bloody, one eye swelling shut under a gash that’s still trickling blood, cradling his broken arm as Matt keeps him steady on his feet—and her worry isn’t at all unfounded.  Meanwhile, Matt was sure not to wash the blood off his face from his own nosebleed.  Stiles is pretty pleased that another one of his self-defense strikes busted Matt’s lip. 

            “Some guys broke into the house,” Matt replies.  “Pissed at the Sheriff I think? I don’t know.  I tried to stop them, Mrs. McCall, but—”

            Stiles lets the words fade into the dull roar of pain that’s bleeding through the initial shock and adrenaline.  He sinks gratefully into the wheelchair they bring.  He tries to close his eyes and slip away, but they’re keeping him awake.  Someone says something about potential concussions or brain bleeds.  They take scans and X-rays.  When they’re satisfied he’s not dying of brain trauma, they put him out to set his broken ulna.  Dad’s there when he comes to again; he looks livid, and Stiles isn’t surprised.

            “Stiles?”

            “Hey, Dad.”

            “Who was it? Did you recognize them at all? Faces, voices, anything?”

            “No, Dad, sorry. I barely remember it. I—I was—”

            “I’m going to find them, you hear me?  I’m gonna—”

            “It’s okay.”

            “No, it’s not! They attacked my son and they’re going to pay the price for it! I will—”

            “Dad!” Stiles interrupts because he can’t take this anger and anxiety that Dad shouldn’t feel.

            _You don’t have to worry.  It wasn’t something you need to take care of for me.  It shouldn’t be another pain in your ass.  This is my problem to deal with, Dad. I’m sorry._

             “It’s over, okay? I’ll be fine.  Can we—can you just go ask the nurse if I can go home yet?”

            _Just want to go home and zone out and hope that Matt at least chills out for a while like he did last time. Next couple weeks shouldn’t be too bad.   It’s okay.  It’s all under control. It’s okay._

********************************************

 

            Matt’s mother comes to pick him up, fretting over both boys with watery eyes.  Dad hears from the department that they’re done searching the house for evidence and didn’t find much.  The doctors clear Stiles to go home, and Dad helps Stiles to the car even though the world’s mostly stopped spinning. 

Dad doesn’t say much on the ride home, but he seems overly tense, as though his anger is still bubbling just beneath the surface.  Stiles can only imagine what he’s thinking and how pissed and disappointed he must be.  Stiles wants to apologize, but he can’t figure out what to say—he can never figure out what to say to Dad—so he doesn’t say anything.

            Dad grabs some ice packs from the kitchen after settling Stiles down on the couch, trying to find a position that’s semi-comfortable.  Dad turns the television to the history channel and pours his first glass of whiskey.  By the time they order Chinese for supper, he’s finishing number four, and Stiles doesn’t like the direction this night is headed.

            “Dad, maybe you should—should pace a little bit,” Stiles suggests, knowing how much his father will hate it but unable to stay silent.

            “I think I know my limits a little better than you, son,” his father replies, not even pausing as he pours the next glass.  “It’s been a tough day.”  

            Dad doesn’t say “and it’s your fault”. He doesn’t have to.  The exhaustion on his face when he looks at Stiles says it for him.

            “Sorry.”

            “It’s okay, Stiles.  I’m glad you’re alright.”

            “Thanks, Dad.”

            Stiles can feel the fatigue of the day winning and the drowsiness is eventually too hard to fight.  He thinks of going upstairs, but it seems like too much effort.  He drifts off on the couch instead, but wakes what seems only seconds later to Dad shaking his shoulder harder than he probably means to—at least harder than Stiles hopes he means to.

            “Dad? What? What is it?”

            “You’re falling asleep down here? After those bastards busted through that door twenty feet away and beat the shit out of you _five_ hours ago?! What the hell is wrong with you?”        

            “Dad, I just—”

            “Don’t give me excuses! You’re smarter than that! Why don’t you ever _think_ , Stiles?”

            “I do, but—”

            “You’re lucky they didn’t goddamn kill you!”

            “Dad, I’m okay; I’ll be fine. I—”

            “I lost your mother already; isn’t that enough?”

            The mention of Mom hurts worse than any of the blows Stiles took from Matt.

            “Dad, I’m sorry!”

            “Don’t be _sorry._ I don’t want you to be sorry.  I want you to be _smart._ You have to _think._ You have to fucking take care of yourself. Why the hell do you think I sent you to that class this morning? _This_ morning, Stiles! Then you get your ass kicked this afternoon! Did you even pay attention to what they were teaching? Did you even fucking try to focus?”

            “I did, Dad; I totally paid attention I swear.  I—”

            “Get up,” Dad orders.

            “What?”

            “Get. Up.”

            “Dad, I—”

            “Stand up, Stiles; I’m not in the mood to play around!”

            “Yeah, okay. I’m up. I’m up,” he replies, getting to his feet.

            He jumps back as Dad raises his fists.

            “Dad, no!”

            “You’re going to learn to defend yourself or so help me God you will get a fucking personal trainer until you learn how to hold your own.”

            _You’re teaching me? Seriously? Guess it’s better than hitting me, but, Jesus, Dad, scare me half to death, why don’t you?_

“Put your hands up,” Dad instructs.

            Stiles does as told, hoping the sight of the bright blue cast will remind Dad that he isn’t the only one who had a rough day.

            “Now, block,” Dad tells him. 

            The punch is purposely slow, and Stiles easily deflects it.  Dad speeds up as he goes, but it’s still easy enough to keep up with it.  Sure, it’s fucked up that he’s insisting they do this tonight, but it could be worse.

             “Block, then punch. Block, then punch,” Dad tells him.  “Come on. Like you mean it, Stiles.  Fucking t _ry._ ”

            “I don’t want to hurt you, Dad.  I’m tired. I—”

            “Try, dammit!” Dad insists. 

“Dad, I—”

“Focus!” Dad insists, “Find a rhythm!”

            The words have Stiles thinking immediately of Derek and class this morning, detracting from the moment and having the exact opposite effect of what his father expected.  As Stiles attention falters, Dad throws a quick jab in what Stiles hopes was just an attempt to spur Stiles to action and not some unconscious desire to start wailing on his son the way Matt does.  Stiles staggers back from the blow to his chest.   He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes, and it makes him feel like a pansy; it _hurt_ though, in more ways than one—overtaxing his spent body and exhausted mental state—and he can’t fucking take this shit right now. Not tonight.

            “Stiles, are you okay?” Dad asks worriedly, moving to support Stiles as though he might fall; it’s so reminiscent of Matt that it takes every ounce of control Stiles possesses not to recoil from the touch.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I just—I need you to be able to protect yourself, you understand?  Losing your mom was too much.  I can’t lose you, too.  That call from the hospital today—”

            “I’m okay, Dad.  I’m really okay. I’ll learn how to fight. I swear.”

            Dad’s on the verge of tears too now, and while Stiles knows it was a god-awful plan, his father’s heart is at least in the right place. 

            “I’ll see if Schrader or Hale can maybe give you some extra lessons when you’re better.”

            Stiles doesn’t argue because he’s got plenty of time to figure out how to get out of it—if Dad even remembers this conversation tomorrow.

            “Come on, kiddo.  Let’s get you to bed, okay? I’ll go pick up breakfast for us in the morning.  You’ll be feeling better in no time.”

            “Yeah.”

            Dad walks with him up the stairs, helps him into his pajamas, and tucks Stiles in like he’s a toddler.  He presses a kiss to Stiles’ forehead before he leaves.  He pauses as he moves to shut the door; it’s too dark for Stiles to fully see his father’s face, but he knows the weariness beyond his years is there without needing to see it.  He’s wearing Dad out just like Mom.  


            “Stiles, you can’t let something like this happen again,” Dad says somberly. “Losing your mom was enough.”

            “I won’t, Dad,” he swears. 

_I’ll figure out how to keep Matt from snapping again.  I’ll keep the damage manageable._

_“_ I’m sorry it was her and not me,” Stiles adds in a small voice.  “It should’ve been me.”

            Dad doesn’t answer.   Stiles wants to think it’s because he just didn’t hear, but he knows it’s probably because Dad’s biting back another “I don’t want you to be sorry.  I want you to…” and Stiles hates to think of all the ways Dad could end the retort.

_I don’t want you to be sorry; I want you to be smart_

_I don’t want you to be sorry; I want you to learn to fucking focus._

_I don’t want you to be sorry; I want you to shut the fuck up since no matter what you say I’m still stuck with you._

_I don’t want you to be sorry; I want you to stop ruining my life._

           Stiles wants to say it again, in case Dad really just didn’t hear, but his throat’s closing up as he tries to hold back further tears until Dad’s gone.  He feels like a vice is closing on his chest, and his inability to breathe is due much more to the emotional ache of having Dad essentially agree that Stiles should be the one six feet under than the physical ache of his ribcage.  He doesn’t think he’d have the courage to say it again anyway.

_What’s the point of apologizing anyway? She’s still gone.  It’s still my_ _fault._

           In the end, all Stiles can force out is, “’Night; love you.”

          “You too.  Get some rest.”

 

*************************************************************

 

            “Hey, kiddo, how ya feeling?” Dad asks when he comes in the next morning. 

            He looks a little worse for wear, but not too bad.

            “I’m okay.”

            “Sorry I crashed out in my chair last night; guess you got up to bed okay on your own though?”

            “Yeah, no big deal.”

            Stiles wonders sometimes if Dad remembers more than he says and doesn’t want to talk about it in the sober light of day or if he really doesn’t know what an asshole he can be once he’s far enough through a fifth.

            “I’m gonna run out for breakfast; what’re you in the mood for? Biscuits? Pancakes?”

            “Doughnuts,” Stiles replies.  “That okay with you?”

            “At the risk of furthering the cop stereotype, you know I’m always on board to get doughnuts.”

            “Chocolate frosting.”

            “You got it.  I’ll be back in a bit.  Call me if you need anything, okay?”

            “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

            “There’s a patrol car out on the street.   You should be safe.”

            “Thanks, Dad.”

            _But they don’t really know who they’re looking for._  

 

 


	6. Chapter 6 - Derek

            Derek’s surprised to see a cruiser in the drive when he glances out the window after the doorbell chimes through the house. 

            “Derek, honey, could you come down here a minute?” Mom calls.

            “Coming!”

            Deputy Schrader stands in the entryway looking too somber for this to be anything except official business.

            “What’s going on?” Derek asks.  

            “You took Stiles Stilinski’s phone by their home yesterday afternoon, didn’t you, Derek?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Everything seemed normal?”

            “Yeah, sure.”

            “You didn’t notice any cars or people that seemed out of place?”

            “No,” Derek replies. “Can I ask what this is about? Did something happen?”

            “Two unsubs broke in yesterday and assaulted Stiles and Matt.  We’re following as many leads as we can.”

            “Are they okay?”

            “They’ll be fine.”

            “Do you have anything to go on? I mean, I don’t remember anything seeming out of place, but maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention.”

            _I could’ve seen who it was.  I could’ve stopped them.  I could at least give a lead now, but I wasn’t paying any fucking attention._

“There was—uh—lemme think—I think a silver Honda in the driveway next door.  A green SUV a couple houses down?”

            “Pretty sure those are neighbors’ vehicles, but I’ll check to be sure.  Any people?”

            “Not that I can remember.”

            “Well, if anything comes to mind, even if it seems inconsequential, let us know.”

            “Yeah, of course.”

            “Great job with the class yesterday; good to have some back-up,” Schrader compliments as he reaches for the door handle.  “Looking forward to having you volunteer.”

            “Looking forward to turning eighteen and actually getting a job with you guys,” Derek replies honestly.

            He wanted to be a fireman when he was a kid, but watching his house burn to the ground with Dad, Noah, and Madison inside kind of fucked that up, to say the least.  He figures being an officer gets a lot of the same goals out of the way.  He doesn’t want to be stuck behind a desk someplace; he wants to help people, wants to feel like he’s making a difference.  He still remembers the sheriff coming to the scene of the fire, draping his coat around Derek’s shoulders and putting him and Laura in the car, and following the ambulances that held Uncle Peter and Mom to the hospital.   He thinks the sheriff remembers too, based on the way he’s determined to support Derek’s plan to join the force; Derek just hopes he doesn’t disappoint him. 

 

*****************************************************************

 

            “Hi, Sheriff,” Derek greets as the door swings open. 

            “Something the matter Derek?”

            If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that was whiskey on the sheriff’s breath.  Hell, maybe it is.  It’s none of Derek’s business if the man wants a stiff drink when he’s off duty.  Dad used to have a scotch after dinner every night. 

            “No, I—uh—I got Stiles’ homework for the next couple days? I texted him I would.”

            “He’s still a little out of it,” the sheriff replies.  “Probably forgot to mention it.”

            _Concussions?_  

            “How is he?”

            “He’ll be fine.  Back to school on Wednesday.”

            “Well this is—uh—today and tomorrow so I think he should be good? Maybe he’s not well enough to do it any way but I thought—”  
            “It was kind of you to think about him,” the sheriff replies.  “I appreciate it.”

            “Yeah, sure.  And if—if he wants like extra self-defense stuff once he’s up to it, I’d be happy to work with him or whatever.”

            _Since apparently we didn’t teach him enough in class.  Since I was twenty minutes too early to protect him myself.  First lacrosse, then kids at school, now guys who have grudges against his dad, he seems to need all the fighting skills he can get._

“I appreciate the offer.  I’ll talk to him about it.”

 

****************************************************************

 

            Stiles doesn’t answer any of the texts Derek sends asking how he’s doing or if he needs rides to school.  Derek sees him in the hall Wednesday though and is completely unprepared  for how horrible he looks—black eyes, gash on his forehead with a butterfly bandage, cast on his arm, and God knows how much more damage in the areas his clothing hides from sight.  Matt’s clearly the luckier of the two, sporting just a busted lip, but if they were trying to fuck with the sheriff, Stiles was the clear target.

            _He’s lucky they didn’t kill him. Damn.  They better catch the bastards who did this._

Derek can’t help notice there’s nothing of the usual bounce in Stiles’ step.  As much as he hates to see the physical wounds, the look of defeat in Stiles’ normally bright face is much worse. 

            “Hey,” Derek greets, walking up to where they stand at their lockers.  “Glad you guys are okay.”

            “Thanks,” Matt replies tersely.

            Derek still can’t believe Matt’s acting like a petulant toddler over the whole giving Stiles a ride thing.  He guesses some guys are just jealous like that, but Derek’s just talking.  He wants to just take Matt aside and assure him he’s got no intention of breaking them up—however appealing the idea seems to the selfish side of him—and see if that gets him off the defensive; that would mean admitting Stiles called Matt jealous though, and Derek doesn’t want to cause trouble with the two of them.  More importantly, he doesn’t want Stiles to think he can’t trust Derek to keep their conversations to himself.

            “Stiles, I mentioned it to your dad, but if you—either of you—want some sparring lessons or—”

            “I don’t need your help,” Stiles snaps.

            “I just—”

            “You deaf, Hale?” Matt asks.  “We’re fine.   You really think your little sparring lessons could’ve helped us when two guys with guns charge in the house?”

            _Maybe._

“There’s some moves that—”

            “I’m going to get some pointers from Schrader,” Stiles says.  “I don’t need lessons from you.”

            Derek’s not sure where the hostility in the words is coming from, but he can take the not-so-subtle hint that the offer isn’t wanted.

            “Oh, okay, that’s—that’s good. You can learn a lot from him.  See you guys at practice.”

            _Assholes._

************************************************************

 

            “Hey, Dad,” Derek greets, plopping into the newly cut grass next to the headstone.  “School? School was fine I guess.  Stilinski is still being kind of an ass.  I don’t get it.  I mean, I understand that his boyfriend’s jealous or whatever.  I just—I dunno would it kill the guy to fucking talk to me?” he wonders with a huff.  “I still don’t even know why I give a shit.  I mean—he’s nice enough or whatever—well, he used to be kinda nice. He’s nice to other people.  Not like Whittemore and the other fucking assholes on first string with me. Danny’s okay, though I guess. I just—maybe I want him to like me cause he’s the sheriff’s kid? Or just ‘cause he’s goofy and makes people laugh? He'd be a good friend ya know? even if he does already have a boyfriend. I don’t fucking know. He’s just under my skin and I hate it ‘cause he fucking hates me, and—”  Derek cuts off his sentence as the blue Jeep pulls through the cemetery gates.  “And of course he’s fucking here,” Derek finishes with a sigh.

            Stiles would have to go twice the distance to his mother’s grave without passing Dad’s, so Derek’s not surprised when he walks by.  He is surprised that Stiles pauses, just for a second.

            “What?” Derek demands moodily.

            “Look, I—thanks for the self-defense offer or whatever today,” Stiles mumbles.  “I’m sorry we were rude about it, just—the way Matt gets, it’s way more trouble than it’s worth.”

            Derek shrugs.

            “It’s fine. I get it.  You should tell him to check the jealousy thing, dude. That’s a little ridiculous.  I mean—”

            “It’s complicated,” Stiles replies.  “Just—thanks but don’t offer again.  I’ll talk to Schrader if I want help, okay?”

            “Sure, whatever.”

            “Talk to you later,” Stiles says before he keeps walking.

            _No, you won’t._

  

***************************************

 

            Stiles’ lacrosse season is over with a broken arm, but Derek’s surprised when he gives up the spot helping manage equipment, too.  Once they’re not on the same team anymore, Derek barely sees him.  He’s not sure if it’s his imagination or if Stiles is actively avoiding him, but a few weeks after the attack, Stiles is back in self-defense class, looking thoroughly miserable.  There’s an odd number today, so when Schrader tells the room to pair off he instructs Derek to pair up with Stiles.

            “Of course,” Stiles mutters as Derek walks over.

            “Look, if you’ve got a problem with me—”

            “It’s fine. I don’t fucking care.  Come on. Let’s get this over with.  Find a rhythm, block, strike, block, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

            Stiles’ good arm darts out, and Derek sees the purple bruise that peeks out under the edge of his sleeve.  It distracts just enough that Stiles’ following kick connects.

            “Shit! Sorry, I—Derek? What’re you doing?” Stiles demands, last words panicked as Derek takes his left wrist in hand.  “Quit it,” Stiles orders when Derek begins to push the sleeve up.

            Stiles yanks his arm away, tugging the sleeve back down.  He’s not quick enough though.  The ugly splotch of abused skin is dark and distinctly shaped.  Someone’s fingers dug into his arm so fiercely they left a mark.

            “Stiles, what happened?”

            “I got fucking attacked in my own house, remember?” stiles asks, waving hi cast around.

            “That’s new.”

            “It’s nothing.”

            “Stiles—”

            “Look, I swear I will have this conversation with you later if you will just shut the fuck up for right now,” Stiles hisses. “Please.”

            Derek shouldn’t agree.  He should call Deputy Schrader over right now and show him the damage.  He should get Stiles help.

            _But if I’m going to help him, he’s got to trust me._

Derek nods.  “You’re not leaving before we talk,” he says, “or I’m telling your Dad.”

            _Unless it’s your Dad who hurt you.  It’s not though, right? It can’t be. The sheriff would never hurt his son.   He loves Stiles more than life itself.  Everyone in the department knows that._

_But then who’s hurting you?_

It’s not a far leap from Matt’s jealous glares to the marks on Stiles’ arm.  Derek just hopes to God that’s all it is—a little rough-housing that can be addressed with ultimatums and a break up if it’s needed.  Personally, Derek would like to give Matt, or whoever’s hurt Stiles, a whopping taste of their own medicine.  If it turns out Matt’s behind more of the injuries Stiles has sustained the past couple of months…

            “Later,” Stiles insists, watching as Derek studies his cast too intently.

 

*******************************************************

 

            “Who is it, Stiles?” Derek demands.

They’re hanging out in the little lunch area behind the station set with aging picnic tables and a pathetic attempt at a flower garden.  The sheriff should be out to call for Stiles soon; he said he just had a little paperwork to finish.  Derek doesn’t want to waste any time getting to the point.

            “It’s complicated.”

            “Who is hurting you? That’s not a hard question.”

            “Derek, I—it’s—it’s—I can handle it.  I swear.”

            “You shouldn’t have to handle that from _anyone_. It’s not okay, Stiles. Don’t pretend it is.  What’s going on?”

            “It’s fine.”

            “Is it Matt?”

            “It’s complicated.”

            “Is. It. Matt.”

            “You can’t tell anyone, Derek. You can’t!”

            “The hell I can’t! Your Dad should—”

            “If you tell him, I’ll say it’s you,” Stiles interrupts.

            “What?” Derek asked, entirely flabbergasted and more than a little confused.

            “If you tell anyone, I will tell them it was all you,” Stiles swears, and though he doesn’t seem happy to dole out the threat, he’s clearly not bluffing.  “I will say you’re the kid at school.  I’ll say you’re the one who broke into the house.  Matt will back me up, and—”

            “He did all of that?!”

            “Shut the fuck up, would you? People are going to hear!”

            It’s not a refutation of Derek’s question, and that is affirmation enough.

            _That son of a bitch._

Derek’s not exactly fond of Matt, but he never would’ve pegged him to be this violent.  Maybe he should have guessed? But how could he with Stiles going along with the attempts to cover up the abuse? Even the sheriff doesn’t know.

_The sheriff will fucking kill him.  I just might help._

“I swear to God, Derek. If you try to rat him out, I’ll—”

“Why would you protect him like that?” Derek wonders, completely at a loss.

            “I don’t have a choice.”

            “Stiles, of course you have a choice. I can help you. Your Dad—”

            “My dad has enough on his plate.”

            “Your dad would be _crushed_ if he knew someone was hurting you and you didn’t let him stop it.”

            “It doesn’t matter. I can’t leave him. I can’t do anything.  I’m managing.  It’s fine.”

            “Why can’t you leave him? Stiles, even if you love him, it’s—”

            “I don’t.”

            “You don’t?”

            “I used to.”

            “And now?”

            “He’s—different.  We used to be really good together, but now...”

            “So leave him.”

            “I _can’t_.”

            “ _Why_ can’t you?”

            “Because—just—just because, okay?”

            “Did he threaten you? Because your dad can protect you. He can—” Stiles huffs out a laugh so bitter it stops Derek mid-sentence. 

            “Dad is the reason I can’t leave Matt, okay? It’s complicated, so fucking complicated, but he would totally ruin everything my dad cares about in this world, and I’m not risking that. Not ever.  So I’m going to suck it up and deal and you are going to shut your mouth and let me.”

            _How can you expect me to do that, Stiles?_

“I can’t just—”

            “I am _begging_ you, okay? Let it go.”

            “Stiles.”

            “Please, Derek.”

            The brokenness is in the supplication makes Derek ache to fix whatever horrible clusterfuck Stiles has gotten himself into.  No one deserves whatever torment this is—except maybe Matt.

            “You have to—you have to tell me if it gets worse.  Or if—if you’re scared he’s going to send you to the hospital again.  I can help you stop him or run or whatever, but don’t—don’t let it get out of hand.”

            It’s already clearly gotten horribly out of hand, but Derek’s just agreeing to buy time now.  He needs to figure out what the fuck to do.  He needs a plan to help.  He’ll figure out something. If he can’t, he’ll tell the sheriff what’s happening, Stiles’ attempt at blackmail be damned.

            “I won’t,” Stiles promises, but Derek doesn’t trust his judgment to know how far is too far; Stiles’ skewed perception is as much a danger as anything.

 

*******************************************************

 

            Derek wakes to a call from a local number he doesn’t recognize.  He silences it, but the mystery number pops up again immediately on another call.

            “’lo?” he mumbles blearily.

            “Derek, it’s Stiles.”

            “Stiles?” he repeats, sitting bolt upright and nearly awake.  “What—”

            “I need a favor.”

            “Okay.”

            “You said you wanted to help, right? With the—uh—whole situation?”

            “Yeah, of course.”

            “I need you to not talk to me,” Stiles requests.  “Like ever.”

            “What?”

            “Don’t talk to me. Not at school.  Don’t come by my house to talk to Dad. Nothing, okay?”

            “Stiles,” Derek says slowly, connecting dots he doesn’t want to connect that lead to a gut-wrenching conclusion, “does Matt hurt you because of me?”

            _You got “beat up at school” after I gave you a ride home.  You were “attacked” again when I dropped your phone off with Matt._

_Oh, fuck, please say I’m wrong._

            “No,” Stiles answers, and Derek has a millisecond of relief before Stiles amends, “Matt hurts me because he’s a jealous asshole sometimes.”

            _Just sometimes?_

“You know what I’m asking you.”

            “Just don’t talk to me, okay?”

            “Stiles—”

            “Look, if I need your help, I’ll let you know.  _I_ will call _you._ Unless that happens, the best thing you can do to help me is keep your distance. Please.”

            “Okay.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes, really. If it helps you.”

            “Thank you so fucking much, dude. I—”

            “One condition.”

            “What?”

            “You call me every other night from whatever number you’re using right now.  You must think it’s safe enough Matt won’t see.”

            “Yeah, it’s the house phone.  It’s what he has the least access to.”

            “Every other night I want to talk to you. I want to hear how you are, how you _really_ are, okay?”

            “Derek, you don’t have to—”

            “Makes or breaks the deal, dude,” Derek insists, though in truth he’ll keep his distance regardless.

He doesn’t want to be the reason Stiles gets hurt.  He wants to be the one to help stop it.  He just has to figure out _how._ Especially if—from what Derek can gather—Matt’s got some kind of blackmail on the sheriff that’s damaging enough to have Stiles enduring this kind of maltreatment.  In the meantime, he needs to know somebody’s at least trying to keep a check on Stiles’ wellbeing, and he guesses that’s going to be him.

“Okay.  Fine,” Stiles agrees. “So I’ll—uh— _not_ see you around then.”

“But hear from you soon,” Derek adds.

“Yeah.  Get back to sleep.  Don’t worry about me.”

_You’re kidding right?_

“Okay,” he says aloud because it’s what Stiles wants to hear.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7 - Stiles

     Derek keeps his distance, like he promised, but the day after the call there’s a Post-It on Stiles locker with a smiley face on it.  He thinks he’s crazy for immediately wondering if it was Derek, especially since there are others on a couple other lockers; then he finds another Post-It folded under the door handle of his Jeep, and the idea that it’s Derek becomes a little more plausible.

            _Who else would it be? It’s not Matt for damn sure._

“Good evening, Mr. Hale, this is your scheduled well-being report for Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles says when he calls later that night, “To indicate you have received this message, please press one. If you would like to terminate the call now, your Good Samaritan duty is done; press two if you would care to have an actual conversation.”

            “Very funny,” Derek quips from the other end of the line.

            “’Funny?” Stiles repeats. “I’m _hilarious._ ”

            “Sure you are.”

            “Says the guy trying to be amusing by leaving stupid smiley Post-Its everywhere.”

            “I can stop.”   

            “No,” Stiles protests maybe too quickly, but the embarrassment’s worth the little huff of laughter he hears and the smile he can imagine coming along with it.  “I mean—they’re—they’re good.”

            “I didn’t know what else to put on them.”

            “Why do you bother?”

            “Because—I don’t know. You just—I thought it’d be—I dunno,” Derek finishes, explaining absolutely nothing.

            “Well, they’re awesome,” Stiles tells him. “Don’t go crazy or anything, but keep it up. If—you know, if you want.”

            “Sure,” Derek agrees readily enough. “So—uh—how’s3 things?”

            “I’m fine.”

            “Has he—”

            “No.”

            “Not even—”

            “Nothing, Derek,” Stiles lies.  “It’s been totally fine.”

            It’s true enough if they’re speaking relatively.  Maybe a jerk here or there, a kiss that’s a little too rough, typical possessive, jealous bullshit, but it’s not so bad.  Matt hasn’t even hit him, and Derek shouldn’t have to worry so much.  


            “Good,” Derek says.  “If anything does—”

            “I’m _fine._ ”

            “Stiles, are you sure—”

            “I’ll talk to you in two days,” Stiles interrupts.  “Bye.”

            He hangs up the phone and instantly regrets it. 

_What if that pissed Derek off? What if he gives up on the notes? He’s the only person who knows. He actually gives a shit. What the hell is wrong with me?_

The thing is, he’s really fucking glad to have it feel like someone’s in this with him.  As much as he doesn’t want Derek dragged into the shitstorm, it’s nice not to be weathering it alone anymore.  It’s going to be a delicate balance, though, having Derek offer help, watching him worry; it makes the temptation to give up on enduring Matt. It makes the selfish urge to get away from Matt without regard to the cost ever stronger. 

_I can’t do that to, Dad.  I won’t.  I’m okay.  I’m fine.  I’ve even got someone to talk to about it.  It’s not so bad._

************************************************

            They’re over at Matt’s marathoning Indiana Jones.  Stiles honest to God never gets tired of these movies.  He’ll be humming the theme song for weeks, but he doesn’t mind too much.  He’s sprawled on the couch, head resting on a pillow in Matt’s lap, and it’s one of those moments when Stiles can almost forget how horrible things have gotten between them.  

            “Don’t quote all the lines before they happen,” Matt says.  “You’re ruining the tone of it.”

            “Fortune and glory, kid. Fortune and glory,” Stiles quotes before Indiana speaks, ignoring the request.

            “Seriously, shut up,” Matt says.

            It’s an argument they’ve had dozens of times with dozens of movies.  Stiles isn’t exactly surprised when Matt raises his hand for a playful smack, and he resists the urge to flinch.  He  _is_ surprised when Matt’s hand balls into a fist and crashes down on his side with a jolt of pain.

            “Ow!” Stiles complains. “What the fuck, Matt? I just—”

            Stiles twists away to dodge the second hit, but Matt still makes contact.  When Stiles gets to his feet, turning to Matt with an accusing glare, Matt looks up at him doe-eyed and innocent.

            “What? I told you to shut up. Don’t be a baby.”

            “I’m not being a baby; that fucking hurt!”

            “I bet it barely left a mark,” Matt replies.  “Stop whining. You’re ruining the movie.”

            “Barely left a mark?” Stiles challenges, lifting his shirt to show the angry red mark still lingering just below his ribs.  “It’ll be a bruise by tonight.”

            Matt shrugs.  “I’m the only one you should be taking your shirt off for anyway.  What’s it matter?”

            “It matters because it fucking  _hurts_!”

             _And I shouldn’t have to say that. You know. That’s why you did it. Don’t pretend I’m being overdramatic._

Matt stands, and Stiles fights the urge to run just in case.  Honestly, running won’t really get him much even if Matt is planning something; it might even make the whole thing worse.  But he doesn’t hit, he leans in for a kiss, light and gentle.

            “I’m sorry, okay?” Matt says softly.  “Let me make it up to you.”

            “Matt—”

             _No, I don’t want you to make it up to me. I want you to stop._

“Please?” Matt persists, following the request with another kiss, deeper this time, but still gentle. 

             _Gentle is good.  Who turns down sex anyway? And it’ll put him in a good mood for a while.  Win-win, right?_

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, and he has to admit he loves the genuine smile that stretches across Matt’s face at the acquiescence.

            Matt leads him by the hand up to his room.  He disrobes Stiles carefully, slowly; Matt’s fingers flit over the new mark on Stiles’ side, and Stile pretends it’s an apology even if it looks more like admiration.  The pace stays languid a while, and even though it picks up to a rougher, more urgent tempo when Matt starts to work Stiles open, it’s still the most tender Matt’s been in a while.   It’s—it’s kind of nice, and Stiles is honestly enjoying the hell out of it, at least physically; he’s not faking the moans tonight.

            And then on his second thrust, Matt’s hand grips around Stiles' throat.

            “Matt, don’t. I—”

            “Shh,” Matt says, squeezing tighter. “You’ll come harder this way. Trust me.”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************

 

            “God, I love you so much,” Matt says, cuddling up next to Stiles, still grinning in post-coital bliss. “You know that?”

            Stiles doesn’t answer.  He’s staring at the same spot on the ceiling, using every ounce of resolve he has not to lose it in front of Matt. 

             _I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m fine. Look how happy he is. He loves me. It’s fine. It’s fine._

“You do don’t you?” Matt asks, and the worry sounds almost genuine.  “You know I love you?”

            His hand finds Stiles and grips it tight, raising it to his lips for a quick kiss. 

             _Oh, now you’re gentle again? Great. Fucking great. Where was this Matt five minutes ago when I needed him?_

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says aloud, the words sour in his mouth.  “I love you too.”

 

**************************************************

 

            “Where’ve you been?” Dad asks the next day when Stiles walks in two hours late from school.

            “Detention.”

            “Really, Stiles?” Dad asks with a sigh.  “That’s the fourth time this month. What the hell?”

            Dad’s sipping on a drink.  It’s his first of two days off before he switches to nights.  He got an early start on the night’s “relaxation” it seems like.  He’s not drunk yet, but the whiskey’s loosened his tongue enough that Stiles already wishes he’d just gone over to Matt’s.  The more lucid these conversations are, the worse they are.

            “Sorry,” Stiles says lamely.

            “What for this time?”

            “I—”

            “No, let me guess,” Dad interrupts.  “Being a smartass or talking in class?”

            “Dad, it’s Harris. He’s a total—”

            “Just give me the damn paper to sign, Stiles.”

            Stiles digs the crumpled yellow slip out of his pocket.  Dad snatches it out of his hand, and grabs a pen off the table to scrawl his signature across. 

            “‘Completely distracted, talking in class,’” Dad reads off the paper.  “Did you take your medicine today?”

            “Yes.”

            “So you don’t have a _reason_ for your inability to focus. You just—”

            “Dad, that’s not fair. It’s _Harris._ ”

            “I don’t care, Stiles.  I don’t pay for your doctor visits and medicine so that you can still fail to pay attention.”

            “Dad—”

            “You’re grounded,” Dad informs him.  “If you’re not going to put in the time at school, you can study a little extra at home.”

            “Dad!”

            “You’re already at one week.  You want to go for two?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Okay then.”

            Stiles takes the signed paper his father hands him and stuffs it in his backpack moodily before retreating to his room. 

            _Such bullshit._

*******************************************************

 

            Derek’s notes progress from smiley faces to things like “have a fucking awesome day and shit” shoved into his economics book; it’s one of two classes he doesn’t have with Matt.  Stiles smiles like a dork when he finds them, and he’s glad Derek’s kept it up.  That is, until one falls out in the hall as he walks.

            “What’s this?” Matt asks, stooping to pick it up.

            “I don’t know.  Where’d it come from?”

            “It fell out of your book.”

            “Oh. Guess it was whoever had it before me?”

            “Yeah, guess so,” Matt agrees.

            It’s too easy and quick an agreement.  He doesn’t believe.  Stiles wants to push it.  He wants to insist that he has no fucking idea where the paper came from, but making it a big deal will just fuel Matt’s reaction.  Now there’s nothing to do but wait for the moment Matt chooses to vent his frustrations.  He’s gotten smarter about it, hitting where Stiles can easily hide the bruises, especially now that he doesn’t have to change in the locker room.   It’s nothing t Stiles can’t take. 

            _It’s fine. It’s all fine.  Maybe he’ll even simmer down before he has a chance to yell at me about it.  It could be fine._

But it isn’t. 

            “Who is it?” Matt demands, shoving Stiles back into the wall of his bedroom.  “Who?!

            “Nobody, Matt. I swear. How can you think I’d do anything to hurt you like that?”

            “Don’t you try to turn the blame on me! You’re the one who’s—”

            “Matt, I’m not hiding anything from you. I promise.”

            “Don’t lie to me!”

            He grips Stiles too tight as he shakes him.  There’ll be bruises tomorrow for sure.

            _Long sleeves._

“If it’s Hale again—”

            “There’s nothing going on with me and Derek!”

            “ _Derek_?” Matt repeats.  “Why are you calling him Derek?”

            “It’s his fucking name! That’s all!”

            “Don’t sass me!”

            Stiles takes two kicks to his ribs in the tussle that follows.  He knows sometimes it would probably be shorter if he quit fighting back, but he hasn’t quite figured out how to back off completely yet.  His fights are only ever half-hearted though.  He can’t really win, and he knows it.  He’s not so worried until Matt snatches a pillow from the bed and shoves it over Stiles’ face.  He kicks, trying to buck Matt’s weight up off him, but he can’t.  He can’t get away and Matt just presses down harder and harder until Stiles is sure his lungs are on fire with the need to breathe.  He goes limp in an effort to fake Matt out early, and it’s more than a little terrifying how long it takes Matt to move the pillow even once Stiles stops struggling.

            _He could kill me.  He really could._

_There are worse things_ _._

******************************************************************

 

            “Hey,” Derek greets brightly when Stiles calls.

            “Don’t leave me notes anymore,” Stiles responds tiredly. 

            “What happened?” Derek demands.  “Stiles, what did he do?”

            “I’m fine, Derek. I told him I didn’t know where it came from.”

            It’s not technically a lie.

            “And he believed you?”

            “I’m fine.”

            “Stiles—”

            “Derek, please just stop.

            “Yeah, okay. No more notes. I swear.”

            _I meant stop trying to help. Stop worrying.  Just leave it alone. You can’t fix it. No one can fix it.  I was an idiot to think some dumb notes were a sign it was going to get better.  I was an idiot to tell you what was going on. I should have lied_   _. I should have kept you out of it._

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

            “Stiles, wait—”

            “Bye, Derek.”

 

****************************************************************

 

            Derek’s at the cemetery when Stiles drives in the next afternoon.    


            “Dammit,” he mutters.

            _I wanted to vent to Mom, okay? I didn’t want to talk to you. I don’t even want to fucking look at you and see that goddamn pity I can hear on the phone with you._

“I’ll leave if you want,” Derek offers as Stiles walks up, “I just—I know Matt doesn’t come here with you, so—”

            “Smart,” Stiles comments as he walks past Derek, and Derek doesn’t hesitate to start following him. 

            “He saw a note, didn’t he? What did he do?”

            “What do you think he did?” Stiles quips back.

            “Stiles, I just—”

 “He fucking hit me. Is that what you want to hear?”

            “I—”

            “It’s nothing, okay? No worse that being sore after lacrosse.”

            “It’s different, and you know it.”

            “Knowing it doesn’t change the situation. I’m fine, Derek; I don’t—I don’t need a knight in shining armor, okay? I know what my choices are, and I’ve made my decision.  I can deal with Matt.”

            “What does he have on your Dad that’s so bad? Maybe—”

            “We’re not talking about my Dad.  Don’t go there.”

            “Okay,” Derek agrees easily enough.  “I just—I want to help. I don’t want him hurting you or—”

            “It’s not your job to save me.”

            “Maybe I’m volunteering.”

            “Why?”

            “Because he’s hurting you.”

            “So?”

            “Stiles, you don’t deserve to be treated like this; no one does.”

            _Maybe I do. Maybe it’s karma for what I did to Mom_ _and what that did to Dad.  You don’t know me. Don’t pretend you do._

“I’m fine,” he repeats again.  “Can we please just—talk about something else? Have a normal fucking conversation?”

            He doesn’t have many of those these days.  He’s pulled back from any conversations with anyone in hopes of quelling Matt’s jealousy. It’s simpler to pull away than to lie to people.  But now there’s Derek, and Derek knows the shit situation Stiles has gotten himself into, and even if Stiles doesn’t want him to get involved and risk fucking things up, there’s something really comforting in having a confidant of sorts.

            “Sure,” Derek says with a shrug.  “You—uh—you know how we talked about an Alt-J concert?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I looked up the dates for it.  They’ll be in Sacramento in a couple of months.  If—if you had shit worked out by then, maybe we could, ya know, go or something.”

            “Are you bribing me with a concert so I’ll let you help?” Stiles asks.

            Derek looks up with a slightly bashful grin that’s absolutely adorable.

            “Shamelessly,” he admits.

            Stiles can’t help huffing out a laugh, but he grimaces at the extra pressure it puts on his ribs.

            “Don’t make me laugh, dude,” he says, “but thanks for the offer.”

            “They’re not broken are they?” Derek asks, studying Stiles as though he could diagnose the injuries with x-ray vision. 

            “Nah, just sore.  They’re fine.”

            “If it—”

            “Normal conversation,” Stiles reminds. 

            “Fine, fine.  Um—so what’s the last album you listened to?”

            The talk about music—everything from The Lumineers to Lana Del Ray—and sports—he tries not to hold it against Derek that he isn’t a Mets fan—and plans for the summer—Derek’s going to apply to the department right after he graduates, and Stiles finds himself wondering if he could use going to see Dad as an excuse to see him once in a while without Matt noticing.  Much too soon it’s time for the gates to close, and they trek back to their vehicles. 

            “So I’ll call you tomorrow night,” Stiles says as they part.

            “Stiles,” Derek replies, and Stiles already knows from Derek’s tone that he’s not going to like what comes next.  “You—you told me you were managing it,” Derek continues. “This isn’t managing it; it’s—it’s just taking it, and that’s—it’s not okay.”

            He doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes when he shrugs and admits, “I know it’s not.”

            “So then—”

            “A year,” Stiles interrupts.  “It’s just a year, and then I’m getting the fuck out of here.  Going to college and leaving Matt; my Dad won’t have to deal with me anymore.  Just a year, and it’ll all be fine.”

            “Stiles—”

            “Just a year,” he persists.   “I can handle it, Derek.  Don’t worry.”

            _You’re going to worry anyway, but I wish you wouldn’t.  I don’t need you to save me; I just want a friend._

“Call you tomorrow,” Stiles says again, getting into his Jeep before Derek can continue the conversation. 

 

***************************************************

 

            “Where’ve you been?” Dad wants to know before the door even shuts behind Stiles.

            “Out.”

            “What part of ‘grounded’ was unclear to you?” Dad demands, and Stiles flinches when he swings his arms out to emphasize his words, though it’s Matt that hits him, not his father; he wonders vaguely when the day will come that Dad starts in, too.  If Matt can with so little valid reason, it won’t be much longer before Dad’s righteous anger gets the upper hand with the alcohol’s help.  Stiles almost wants to tell Dad it’d be okay.

_I’m getting used to it.  I could take it, and maybe you’d vent the anger on me instead of trying to drown it.  At least I know I deserve it from you._

“Or could you not even focus long enough to remember the conversation?”

            “Dad, I—”

            “You just traded in your week of being grounded for a month,” Dad interrupts.  “Wanna go for more?”

            “No, sir,” Stiles answers.

            “Where the fuck were you?”

            “Does it matter?”

            “Answer the question.”

            “I went to see Mom, okay? Jeez.”

            He hates the way Dad deflates at the mere mention of her, like Stiles sucked the life out of him at just by bringing her up. 

            “Oh.”

            “I know you—you don’t think she’s around or the grave matters but the flowers needed swapping and—”

            “You don’t have to explain, son,” Dad says tiredly.  “I miss her, too.”

            “I’m sorry, Dad.”

            But Dad doesn’t _really_ hear the apology any more than he usually does. 

            “It’s okay, but you should’ve told me. Forget what I said about the extra time.  You can go to the cemetery even when you’re grounded.”

            “Thanks.”

_But I’m sorry for so much more than that._

**************************************************************

 

            “Stiles? Are you okay?” Derek asks worriedly.

            “Oh shit,” Stiles mutters. “I’m not supposed to call ‘til tomorrow. Sorry I—”

            “Dude, it’s not like a rationing of phone time,” Derek replies.  “I just didn’t want to sound like a fucking mom and make you call every night.”

            _Yeah, well I’m a little lacking in the overprotective mom front so maybe I wouldn’t mind it as much as I thought I would._

“Everything okay?” Derek wonders in the lull.

            “Yeah, sure just—just kind of a long week I guess.”

            “Did something else happen with Matt?”

            “Nah, I just—I’m grounded,” he answers.  “It’s dumb. I’m fine.”

            “It’s not dumb; that sucks,” Derek replies.

            “I just—you had Harris last year, right?”

            “Yeah, he’s a total prick.”

            “Right?! It’s not my fucking fault the guy hates my guts.  I don’t even know why.  Maybe he and Matt should start a fan club,” Stiles mutters.

            “Does he?”

            “Does he what?”

            “Matt,” Derek replies.  “Does he hate you?”

            “I think he hates me for not loving him as much as he thinks I should,” Stiles answers honestly.  “I don’t know. It’s weird. It—it’s intense, having him so fucking determined to be with me, but—I don’t know. Sometimes I think he means it when he says he loves me but sometimes I think it’s just a power trip.”

            “Stiles, you can’t stay with him.”

            “Stop it.”

            “Come on. You have to see that—”

            “One year, and I’m done.  We _just_ fucking talked about this.  I just—I don’t need you to tell me shit I already know.”

            “Then what do you want me to say?”

            “That you won’t totally hate me if I start calling every night instead of every two?” Stiles replies, “And you won’t hang up when I whine about shit. Just listen? And I mean, talk about you if you want to just—just don’t tell me shit I know.”

            “Okay.”

            “Okay?”

            “You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit by yourself. If this is all you’ll let me do to help, then I’ll take it.”

            “Thanks, dude.”

            “Sure.”

            “Why do you even care?”

            “Why are you so surprised I do?”

            _Because you were supposed to be some hotshot jock like Jackson.  Because I’ve been whiny and rude and pathetic.  Because any of the other underclassmen would fucking love to be the great Derek Hale’s new friend, but you get tied up in my shit instead._

“I dunno.”  Dad stirs in the living room.  “Shit, I—uh—my Dad’s coming. I’m gonna go.  Questions and stuff.”

            “You don’t normally talk to your friends at one in the morning?”

            “Smartass.”

            “Takes one to know one.”

            “Call you tomorrow,” Stiles says, hanging the phone up reluctantly, and the promise keeps a smile on his face all the way back up the stairs.

 


	8. Chapter 8 - Derek

Stiles should have called twenty minutes ago.

            _He probably just forgot or fell asleep._

_But he’s never missed before._

_In fact, he’s been early lately._

Derek rises from the bed and grabs his keys from the dresser.

            _I’ll just—just drive by the house or something. Just—I don’t know._

No lights are on except the flickering of a television downstairs.  Derek almost keeps driving, but he can’t.  If it makes him a creep, so be it, but he’s got to _see_ thatStiles is okay.  There’s a lattice in the back, so it’s not hard to climb up.  There’s no light in Stiles’ room beyond that streaming in from the streetlamp, and Derek reaches out to knock lightly on the glass.

            “It’s open; you know that,” Stiles says from inside.  “I thought you said you couldn’t stay.”

            “It’s me,” Derek replies.

            “What the fuck are you doing here?” Stiles demands, clicking on his bedside lamp.  “Go home.”

            “You didn’t call.”

            “Matt was here. You’re fucking lucky he’s gone.” Stiles slides out of bed, back to Derek as he pulls on his boxers, leaving no question what Matt came over for.  Derek hopes fervently that the blush rising in his cheeks isn’t too noticeable; he’s only human and _damn_ Stiles’ ass is—

            _Oh God now is not even remotely the time to be admiring his ass.  What the fuck is wrong with me?_

“You missed him by _maybe_ five minutes,” Stiles continues. “What’re you _thinking_?”

            “I was worried. I thought—”

            “You want to worry?” Stiles interrupts.  “I’ll tell you what to worry about,” Stiles says angrily.  “You worry about the fact that _these,_ ” he says, gesturing to the three or four bruises on his abdomen.  “These are from _good_ days, and I have good days as long as you stay the hell away from me.”

            “Stiles, I—”

            “What do you think he’d do if you’d knocked on that window while he was still here? Huh? What if he drove by right now and saw you? Did you bother to worry about that?”

            “I thought you might be hurt. I’m trying to _help_ you. I’m on your fucking side here, man. I—”

 “This isn’t your problem, Derek. I didn’t ask you to help me. I didn’t ask you to be on my side. Just go home.  And don’t expect any more calls, okay? I can take care of myself.  I don’t need you.”

      “Stiles—”

      “Leave!”

      “Okay, fine,” Derek replies, trying not to sound wounded.  “I’ll go, but if you change your mind or—”

      “I won’t.”

      Derek nods, turning to work his way back down off the roof.  He hopes Stiles is just projecting his anger at Matt onto Derek.  He hopes it passes.  He hopes Stiles does change his mind and calls tomorrow.

_But what the hell am I going to do if he doesn’t?_

****************************************************

           

            Stiles didn’t call last night, and Derek’s trying to pretend it’s not eating him alive to be cut out of things like this.  It’s not like he was actively helping, but it gave him the illusion that he was making it better.  It seemed like Stiles wanted him there, wanted someone to talk to, enjoyed knowing someone cared.  It’s all made worse by the fact Derek can’t call or text or visit without risking Stiles’ safety.  He’s thinking maybe he’ll just try waiting at the cemetery again when Deputy Pearson calls him into his office on his way out the door.

            “Hale, you drive past the Stilinskis’ on your way home, don’t you?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Run these to the door, would you? I told the sheriff I’d get them to him to look over for the weekend, but I didn’t have them done when he left.”

            “Sure. No problem,” Derek replies, trying hard to suppress a relieved grin. 

            He takes the manila folder out to the car with him.  Even if he’s there, Matt can’t hold it against Stiles that Derek had to stop by on department business.  If he’s not there, maybe Stiles will talk to him, even if it’s for just a second.  Maybe he’s not really still pissed at Derek for creeping.  Derek takes it as a good omen that Matt’s car isn’t here. 

He walks up to the door, ready to hit the doorbell, but the sound of shattering glass startles Derek back. There’s some muffled shouting, but Derek can’t make out the words.  He bangs on the door, subtlety be damned. 

      “Stiles?!”

      More shouting, and they apparently didn’t hear him.  When something else topples and more things shatter, he doesn’t hesitate to burst in the unlocked door.  He’s ready to rip Matt a new one, scream til he’s hoarse, call the cops now Matt’s been caught in the act.

He’s _not_ even _remotely_ ready for the sight of the Sheriff on the dining room floor surrounded by the remnants of a glass and the table and vase he must’ve knocked over.  Stiles is trying to help him up, but it’s clear the sheriff’s inebriated far beyond the point of good balance.  Stiles and Derek stare at each other, both frozen in surprise, for a few seconds before Stiles recovers.

            “Shut the goddamn door,” he commands, and Derek’s quick to obey.  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

            “I know—I know you said not to come—but—but Deputy Pearson asked me to drop these by and—and, Stiles, is he drunk?”

            “No, he’ s lost his memory and reverted back to being a toddler,” Stiles retorts.  “What the fuck does it look like, Derek?”

            “I’m _not_ drunk! I _tripped,_ Stiles,” the sheriff slurs.

            “Right, sorry, Stilinski family clumsiness,” Stiles agrees.  “Come on, Dad.  The game’ll be on soon.  Let’s go watch the game.”

            Derek’s still frozen, unsure what the hell to do or how to help, totally and completely flabbergasted at the sight of a man he respects so deeply completely smashed and being cared for by his abuse victim son.  Derek’s legs move without formal direction, following Stiles and the sheriff into the den where Stiles deposits his Dad in the recliner.  He clicks on the television to the rerun of some baseball game from decades ago.

            “Your mom hated baseball,” the sheriff mumbles sleepily.

            “Yeah, I know, Dad.”

            “I used to drag her to games all the time.  She’s sit and paint her nails or read a book.  She hated it, but she’d go so I didn’t have to by myself.”

            “Mmmhmm,” Stiles says, inspecting the cuts on his father’s hands and arms for bits of glass; none of them look too bad from what Derek can see.  “She was awesome.”

            “I miss her.”

            “I know, Dad. I’m sorry.”

            “But you’re still here.”

            “Yeah.”  Stiles agrees, and there’s such deep sadness in his face that it’s breaking Derek’s heart.  “Look, I’ll be right back, okay? You want some water, Dad?”

            “Nah, I’m good.  Fix me a drink? I’m not sure where I sat mine down.”

            “Sure,” Stiles agrees sadly.  “Be right back.”

            “Thanks, kiddo.”

            Stiles looks like a kicked puppy as he walks past Derek, beckoning him to follow into the kitchen.

            “Stiles—”        

            “Look,” Stiles says quietly, addressing Derek’s feet and not his face.  “It’s—it’s their anniversary today. He’s just—just a little in the dumps is all. He’s not usually this bad he—”

            “Is this what Matt knows?”

            “Look, whatever you want, I’ll do it, okay?” Stiles says.  “Just don’t—don’t tell anyone.”

            “Whatever I want?” Derek repeats dumbly.

            “Whatever it takes,” Stiles confirms. 

            The realization that this is why Matt has such power over Stiles, that Stiles will really do anything to hide this secret for his father, makes Derek livid, but the idea that Stiles thinks _Derek_ would use this knowledge against either of the Stilinskis makes Derek sick.

            “So if I want to beat you and fuck you?” Derek spits before he can stop himself.  “You’re down for that?”

            Stiles smacks him so hard he careens sideways and nearly hits the counter.

            _Okay, yeah I deserved that._

“Shit, I—I’m sorry,” Stiles says. “I just—it’s been a stressful afternoon, okay? I’m sorry. Is that—I mean I know you don’t—you hate it when he hits me so you wouldn’t—but, but if you want to—fool around or something, we could—”

            Derek grimaces, closing his eyes in disgust at the mere idea.

            “Derek, _please_.”

            “I’m not interested in—”

            Stiles’ lips crash into Derek’s, cutting off the sentence.  Derek jerks back, surprised a bit by how sorry he is to lose the contact, however forced it was.

            “I don’t have money,” Stiles says. “I—”

            “Shut up for five seconds of your life,” Derek commands more harshly than he means to, but Stiles does.  “I’m not interested in blackmailing you,” Derek continues.  “What the hell kind of guy do you think I am? I want to _help,_ Stiles.  You don’t owe me anything okay? We’ll—we’ll work on something together, all right?”

            “You don’t—you don’t want anything?”

            “I’m not Matt.”

            “I know; I just—I mean it Derek you can’t—you can’t tell anyone. No one can know. He’d lose everything.  I swear it doesn’t affect his work. He only drinks off the clock.  He—”

            “I work for him, Stiles. I know he’s good at his job,” Derek reminds.  “Your Dad’s awesome, okay? I don’t want him to lose his spot as sheriff any more than you do. I just want to help.”

            Stiles bites his lower lip, tears welling up in his eyes as his composure wavers. 

            “Thank you,” he says, voice cracking. 

            Derek takes a step back in toward him, and Stiles allows himself to be pulled into Derek’s embrace

            “It’ll be okay,” Derek assures.

            _I have no clue how yet, but we’ll fix it.  I’m going to help you fix it._

********************************************************

 

            The sheriff’s out cold and tucked under a blanket on the recliner.  Stiles and Derek are up in Stiles’ room sharing a pizza and half watching _Batman Begins_.

            “You’re going to hate me for asking this,” Derek says, breaking the latest lull in conversation.  “But—all—all the bruises are from Matt, right?”

            “Right,” Stiles replies.  “My dad just—he just drinks. He doesn’t hit me.”

            “Good.  I mean—not good that he drinks but—”

            “Yeah.”

            “Does anyone else know?”

            “Matt’s the only one who knows he gets this bad.”

            “And he threatened to tell if you tried to leave him?”

            Stiles nods.  “He—uh—he’s got pictures and videos and everything.  He took them on his phone, and I didn’t realize he was doing it until—until he showed me and—they’re not that bad but they’re enough, ya know? The sheriff drunk off his ass and yelling at his kid? It—it’d kill his career for sure.”

            “He yells at you?”

            “Not always.  It’s no big deal.”

            _So much of this is not okay, Stiles. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. Why do you think you have to deal with this?_

            “Have you—have you ever talked to him about—”

            “Dude, after everything he went through with Mom, I’m _glad_ all he does is drink too much sometimes.”

            “Yeah, but—”

            “God, I love this part,” Stiles says, directing his attention back to the movie screen pointedly.   “I mean of course _Dark Knight_ is the best of the trilogy, but this is still pretty damn good, you gotta admit.”

            “Uh-huh,” Derek agrees, taking the hint to let the topic drop for now. 

            “I mean yeah it doesn’t hurt that he’s got a shit ton of money and all, but he’s still like human, ya know? He does all this shit without the whole superpower advantage.  It’s kinda cool.  Like I could be Batman, in theory.” He ducks his head bashfully. “That sounds really dumb. I—”

            “Bet you’d make a pretty good Batman,” Derek replies. 

            “Yeah, right,” Stiles huffs.  “I can’t even make first string at lacrosse.”

            _Yeah, but you’re a lot stronger than you look._

“So be your own superhero.”

            “Super Sarcasm Stilinski,” Stiles announces in a booming voice.  “Now that I could pull off.”

            “What’s your costume?”

            “They’re not _costumes_ ; they’re _uniforms._ ”

            “Uniform then.”

            “Tighty-whiteys, yellow polka dot bikini top, and a sombrero,” Stiles answers without missing a beat, face completely serious.

            “No cape?” Derek wonders with an exaggerated gasp. 

            “Haven’t you seen _The Incredibles_? My klutzy ass would get sucked in a jet engine _so_ fast.”

            Stiles is laughing to himself over his own joke.  Derek can’t help thinking _this_ is how he should look all the time, a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, no worry on his face, rambling on about whatever comes to mind.  He wants to go downstairs and shake the sheriff for not seeing the stress he’s causing his son.   He wants to find Matt and throttle him for being the kind of complete and total scum that would take advantage of this situation.  Anger’s the last thing that Stiles needs right now though, so instead he grabs another slice and passes the box to Stiles, settling in beside him to stay as long as Stiles will let him.

 

***************************************************************

 

            _Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea._

But Matt’s phone is just sitting there next to his gym bag, and Derek can’t help hoping he hasn’t backed up his blackmail. 

            _Maybe. Just maybe._

He swipes it on his way out, breathing a sigh of relief when he makes it all the way to the car without incident.  When he gets home, he takes it out of his pocket, realizing he wouldn’t even know where to begin cracking the password.  It doesn’t matter though; with any luck, this takes Matt’s leverage, or at least knocks it back a lot.  If he can get rid of the evidence and convince Stiles to talk to his dad—maybe even help with an intervention kind of thing?—then maybe they can dig Stiles’ life out of the hell hole it’s currently in.

            _Please, oh please.  I want to help him. Let this be a step in the right direction._

 


	9. Chapter 9 - Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI there's a tad of time overlap here between the end of Derek's POV last chapter and STiles' this chapter

            Dad’s waiting for him in the kitchen when Stiles arrives home from school.  He’s not drunk, just pissed, but as always, that only makes it impossible to blame Dad’s detestation on the alcohol; it only makes Stiles feel more like shit.  He’s got an envelope in his hand, and Stiles doesn’t have to wonder long what it is.

            “Your SAT scores came today,” Dad says, breaking the tense silence.

            “Oh?”

            _Fuck. I forgot they mailed a copy._

Stiles checked the score online a month ago, and immediately decided not to mention it to Dad: his scores were fucking embarrassing. 

            “What the _hell_ kind of scores are these? Aren’t you in Advanced Placement? Don’t you want to get into something a little more prestigious than Beacon Hills Tech? You’re supposed to be _smart,_ Stiles! ~~?~~ What is this bullshit?” Dad demands, tossing the papers at Stiles.

            _I don’t care where I go as long as it’s as fucking far from here as I can manage.  Where Matt can’t keep fucking up my life, where I can’t keep fucking up yours._

“I’ll take the test again,” Stiles offers. 

            “You’re damn right you will!” Dad says.  “And between now and then learn how to get your head in the game long enough to—”

            “Not everything is about my ADHD, okay?”

            _Sometimes it’s wondering if they can ever smell the whiskey on you when you go into work.  Sometimes it’s wondering how royally fucked your liver is and if you’ll kill yourself drinking before I can get out of the way and you can stop.  Sometimes it’s trying to guess what Matt’s mood wil be like—take me out to dinner or hit me or manipulate me into sex—and how much longer before I can’t give him enough to keep him quiet._

_So yeah, I’m a little distracted, and I wish to God it was just ADHD._

“Well, whatever the hell your problem is, you best fix it before you ask me to fork out money for the next test.  You’re going into senior year.  The rest of your life hinges on what you set in motion this year.  Don’t fuck it up.”

            “You don’t have to worry about that, Dad.”

            _I fucked everything up already._

 

**********************************************************

 

            “Hey, Stiles,” Derek answers happily.

It’s fucking killing Stiles how happy Derek always sounds to hear Stiles’ voice on the other end of the line.  It damn sure isn’t helping this crush that’s been growing, especially since Derek stayed to hang out the other night.

_Get a grip, Stiles. Why the fuck would he want to get involved with all your bullshit?  He’s just being a decent person.  He doesn’t want you like that_ _. You offered, remember ? he pulled away from the kiss as past as humanly possible. He’s not your knight in shining armor to whisk you away to a happy ending.  He’s just trying to make sure Matt doesn’t fucking kill you.  It’s human decency, not romantic affection…_

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles replies.

“Did something happen today? You sound—”

“SAT scores weren’t exactly stellar,” Stiles replies, not mentioning that it’s Dad’s reaction that’s the real problem.  “Nothing major.”

“You can take it again,” Derek reminds him helpfully, “even if you can’t there’s plenty of schools that offer provisional admission.  You’ll figure it out.”

Stiles can’t help imagining that dazzling smile Derek kept giving him the other night while they watched the movie.  Stiles still isn’t sure if Derek was really stealing glances at him or if it was just wishful thinking on Stiles’ part.  Regardless, just the memory of the grin has a small smile on Stiles’ own face.  However crazy this shitstorm is, Derek seems to be on Stiles’ side, God help him, and that’s more fortifying that Stiles could say.

“Thanks.”

“I could help you look for places if you want—or help you study for when you retake it.  I—”

“Matt,” Stiles says simply. 

“Oh. Yeah,” Derek replies dismally.  “Well, but—maybe if—”

“Honestly, dude, as awesome as it would be, I’m not so sure it’s worth the risk, but thanks for the offer.”

“How’s he been lately?”

“It was good today,” Stiles replies as brightly as he can.

“Oh, that’s good.  Maybe got your mind of it for a little while at least?”

It’s not Derek’s fault he’s so naïve about the slim odds of time with Matt really relieving Stiles’ stress.  Stiles is the one who skews his stories to Derek in favor of Matt being mostly fine instead of mostly abusive.  Stiles is the one who says there are still lots of good days, he just doesn’t say that “good” has become relative; now he unofficially categorizes “good” days as two hits or less and no fucking.  It puts a weird ache in his chest to have Derek wishing Matt can make Stiles happy, like it’s something Derek wants to do himself but can’t; of course, that’s probably Stiles projecting what he wishes Derek felt into the situation again.

“Uh-huh,” Stiles agrees.  “I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Okay, well—uh—talk to you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, ‘Stiles,” he says, and Stiles hates the way the simple phrase makes his heart skip a beat.

He knows he hasn’t imagined that Derek’s only ended conversations like that since the impromptu movie/pizza night, and so he’s not imagining that, even if Derek doesn’t mean anything more than friendship with the words, it still means they’re getting a little more comfortable with each other. 

“Night, Derek.”

 

************************

 

 

            “Stiles, are you okay?” Derek asks; he sounds worried, probably because it’s barely dinnertime and not the usual late-night call.

            “Yeah, I’m good. Just—uh—Matt’s coming over tonight, so I don’t think I’ll be able to call until late.  Maybe not at all.”

It’s Dad’s first evening back on night shift, and Matt’s a master at sneaking out.  Stiles used to look forward to these nights—to fooling around with no worry of how loud he got, to cursing their competitors as loudly as they wanted while playing games on the big TV in the den, to having the house to themselves and pretending this is what it would be like to have their own place—but now he dreads them.  Now these are the nights that Matt runs the show, with no one to hear arguments or see the predatory gleam in his eye when he looks at Stiles.  These are the nights that remind Stiles just how trapped and miserable and pathetic he really is. 

“I just didn’t want you to worry and come over or something.”

“Oh. Well—uh—I hope he’s in a good mood or whatever.  Maybe it’ll be fun?”

 “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Stiles replies.  “How was he at practice?”

“Coach told him he might start next year if he keeps it up, so pretty happy I guess.”

“Good.”

“And, hey, speaking of practice, I have good news. Maybe good news. I hope it is anyway and—”

“Wait,” Stiles orders, terror jolting through him as headlights shine in through the windows.  “Fuck, he’s early,” Stiles mutters.  “Gotta go.  Talk to you later.”

 

 

************************************************************

 

“How was practice?” Stiles asks when he answers the door.

“Fine,” Matt answers curtly.

_Derek said you were in a good mood.  What the fuck?_

“Something wrong?”

“Someone fucking stole my phone,” he replies, “Don’t guess you’d know anything about that?”

“Why would I know something about your phone being stolen?”

“Maybe you’re stupid enough to think I don’t have every bit of footage of your dad—”

“I wouldn’t steal your phone, Matt.  I know you’re not that dumb. Neither am I.”

“I fucking hope not,” Matt growls jerking Stiles in close with a too tight grip on his arm, “because if I find out you had _anything_ to do with it, I will—”

Stiles closes the distance between then with a sweet, quick kiss. 

“I promise you it wasn’t me,” he says with a smile.  “Can we please just let it go and have a fun, chill night?”

_Yeah, right. Sure._

“You’re right,” Matt says, relaxing slightly.  “You’re right. Yeah. Let’s—let’s just have some fun,” he suggests, leaning in for another kiss.

 

********************************************************************

 

When Stiles come back from his shower, Matt’s standing by the desk, arms folded across his chest and _clearly_ pissed off.

_Shit._

“What’s this?” Matt demands, picking up one of the several printouts on Stiles’ desk for East Coast colleges that will accept him even with a shitty SAT score; he meant to tuck them away before Matt came, but he hadn’t had a chance once Matt showed early.

“Just some options.  Nothing serious.” 

“You’re going to go to college without me?”

Stiles hears the accusation in the voice.  He knows what comes next.

 “No, you could—you could apply to the same places, Matt,” he suggests, trying to maneuver back to safer ground.  “Or even if we went different places, we don’t have to break up. We could—”

“This is why you took my phone, isn’t it? First step in destroying my leverage? You think you can leave me?”

Stiles can’t say he’s surprised when Matt sends a quick, stinging jab to Stiles’ gut. 

“Matt—”

“I can’t watch you walk away, Stiles.  I won’t,” Matt says voice full of emotion as he turns away.

He thinks for the briefest moment that Matt’s turning away in genuine distress at the thought of losing Stiles, but then he whirls back around, the belt Stiles discarded on the desk flying from his hand, the belt buckle connecting so hard with Stiles’ temple that he feels the blood trickling down his face as he staggers sideways.  He tries to dodge the next strike but trips, stumbling toward the desk and Matt shoves him hard, smashing Stiles’ head into the wood with a jarring thud and letting Stiles crumple to the floor.

“I’ve told you before; if you belong with anyone, it’s me.  I can’t watch you be with someone else.”

“Don’t, Matt,” Stiles pleads trying to retreat, as Matt hovers over him swinging the belt, but the room hasn’t stopped spinning since his head slammed into the desk.

He doesn’t scramble far before Matt thunders, “You’re mine, you hear me?”

He swings the belt hard again as Stiles finally gets to his feet.  Stiles blocks the first hit with his arm.  The second lands on his back as he turns away.  The third is all Stiles can take before he turns to rush Matt, trying desperately to wrench the belt from his fingers.  All it takes is one good blow to the head to have Stiles closing his eyes against the spinning sensation again.  Matt latches onto Stiles’ collar, choking him as he drags Stiles to his feet and out to the hall.   Stiles claws at Matt’s arm, trying to loosen the choking hold but Matt’s more lucid, with strength driven by fury. Stiles can’t manage to pull free of his grasp.

“No one else can have you. No one! You belong with me, Stiles!”

“I know. I know.  I love you, Matt. I swear I do,” Stiles assures frantically, now holding tight to Matt’s arm as he realizes they’re nearing the stairs.

He yanks Stiles’ face toward his own.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me,” Matt says, voice quiet and deadly.

 “I’m not lying,” Stiles promises. 

“Don’t you _dare_ lie to me!”

“Please, Matt. I wouldn’t. I love you.”

“You’re a fucking lying, cheating whore, and you think you can leave me? You think—you think you can turn your back on me?”

“No, Matt, no!”

“I’ll fucking kill you before I’ll let you leave me.”

“Matt, no!”

Matt slings Stiles toward the stairs.   Stiles manages to grasp at the banister, but Matt kicks him hard, knocking the wind from Stiles’ lungs and dislodging him from his safe hold.  He tumbles down the stairs, yelping as he bashes against the hard corners of every step.  His legs take the worst of it this time, and, though he doesn’t think anything’s broken, his knee throbs in pain.  It’s too wounded to support his weight when he tries to get to his feet so Stiles crawls toward the den as Matt descends the stairs slowly behind him like the villain of some movie. 

_Derek._

_If I can get to the phone, if I can call Derek—_

“You can’t get away from me,” Matt taunts.  “You can’t leave me. You belong with me, Stiles. Why can’t you see that?”

Matt actually reaches the den before Stiles, grinning down as Stiles tries to get to his feet; Matt keeps him down with a shove, placing a foot on Stiles’ back to keep him there.

He hears the thud of Matt slapping something too solid to be the belt against his palms.  He turns his pounding head just enough to glimpse the maple bat as it swings through the air.  The scream that escapes his lungs as the blow catches him in the side doesn’t even sound human.  Even if he hadn’t heard the crack of breaking bone, Stiles knows the feeling of bruised and cracked ribs well enough, and this is worse, so much worse, and he can’t fucking _breathe._

“Matt, please,” he gasps, begging shamelessly as Matt swings again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“Love you,” he chokes out.  “Love you, Matt. Please.”

Matt rolls Stiles’ battered body onto his back.  Stiles stares up at Matt’s face; it’s so contorted in fury he barely seems human.

 “Please stop.”

“Say it again.”

“Please—”

“Tell me you love me!” Matt commands

“I do. I love you.”

Matt discards the bat.  Stiles flinches as it cracks against the floor near his head.   He barely has time to be relieved before Matt’s straddling his chest, crushing in on his wounds with his weight, ripping a howl of pain from Stiles.

“I wish I believed you,” Matt says sadly, like he’s the one being wounded, like _he’s_ the victim here.  “I loved you, you son of a bitch!” Matt fumes, hands balling into fists as he begins to rain down blows on Stiles’ face. “How could you leave? Why would you leave?”

“Stop,” Stiles supplicates with what little breath he can force out.

_Please stop, Matt. Please.  I’d tell you whatever you want to hear if I could. But I can’t think. I can’t breathe.  Please just stop._

 “You belong with me! You’re mine! You’re mine, Stiles!”

“Yes,” Stiles agrees.

_Whatever you want me to say. Please just stop._

“No one else can have you! I won’t let you leave me! I can’t! I won’t! I _won’t_!”

Stiles can’t see through the blood anymore; Matt’s class ring is opening up gashes all over his face.  He struggles to suck in shallow gasps of air that gurgle with the blood spilled into his mouth.  Still, Matt’s strikes never slacken or slow.

_It’ll be over soon. He has to stop soon. It’ll be over soon.  Please let it be over soon.  Please just let it stop._

“Mine,” Matt insists, and his voice is far away now, muffled and quiet.

Stiles feels the pressure as Matt’s hands close around his throat, and the jolt of renewed terror lends Stiles the strength to shove at Matt’s hands, but Matt digs into Stiles’ flesh with his fingernails, refusing to relinquish his hold.  Stiles’ struggle lasts all of twenty seconds; it’s laughable, completely futile. He’s completely at Matt’s mercy.  As Matt’s grip closes tighter again, Stiles’ head pounds with the desperate need for oxygen. 

“You were mine.  You’ll always be mine, Stiles.  My Stiles. Mine.”

When the darkness creeps in, blocking out even the reddish haze in Stiles’ eyes, Stiles is oddly relived to have it wash over him.

_There are worse things…_

 

*********************************************************************

 

            Stiles regains consciousness slowly.  His left eye won’t open, but he can see just a bit through his right.  His head throbs as he turns; every inch of his body protests any movement. 

            “Matt?” he wonders, voice hoarse.  “Matt?!” he tries again.

            _Derek.  I’ll call Derek.  He’ll help me get cleaned up. He’ll help. Derek wants to help._

It’s an excruciating journey to inch his way along the six or seven feet of floor between where Matt left him and the phone on the end table by the couch.  He can feel the friction burns forming as he drags himself over the carpet.  They’re inconsequential compared to the rest of his injuries. 

            _I thought you were supposed to go into shock when shit like this happened.  I thought it was supposed to hurt less.  It doesn’t.  It all fucking hurts._

He dials Derek’s number, leaving red smudges on the glowing green buttons of the phone.  Derek answers on the second ring.

            “Hey, Stiles, how’d it go with—”

            “Help,” Stiles whimpers into the phone.

            “Shit, shit, okay, yeah, of course. I’m coming, okay?  I’m going out the door right now.  Is he still there Stiles? What happened?”

            “Gone.”

            “He’s gone? It’s just you?”

            “Yes.”

            “What happened?”

            “Stairs. Bat.”

            “Jesus, fuck. What? I—it doesn’t matter. I’m coming, okay? You’ll be all right.  Are you—did you call 911?”

            “No.”

            “Shit, okay—uh—I’m going to hang up and call them, okay?”

            “Don’t.”

            “You need—”

            “Stay.”

            “I’ll call you right back, Stiles, I swear.”

            “Please.”

            “I’ll call you right back.  I’ll be there soon.  I’m fucking flying to get to you, okay? I’m coming. I will be there so soon, Stiles. Hold on.  I just—you need help.  I gotta call the ambulance.  I will call you right back I fucking _promise_ you.”

            “Derek—”

            The line goes dead, and Stiles’ heart sinks. 

            _Don’t go, Derek. Help me.  Please, help me._

 


	10. Chapter 10 - Derek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should've been studying...
> 
> but...
> 
> I wrote instead...
> 
> I think I need help.

            “Stiles?!” Derek calls through the house.  “Stiles?!”

            Stiles didn’t answer the phone when Derek called back.   He may or may not have topped eighty on the way here figuring at least if the cops clocked him they’d follow him to the Stilinskis’. 

            “Here,” Stiles says just as Derek reaches the threshold of the living room.

            “I’ll fucking kill him,” Derek rants, rage rising up as he takes in the sickening sight of Stiles’ crumpled and beaten body on the floor.  There are red marks—soon to be bruises— around Stiles’ throat.  He’s bloodied and broken and crying and—

            “What the fuck did he do to you, Stiles?”

            “Stairs—and bat—wouldn’t stop.”

“He’s gone now,” Derek soothes, wanting to cup Stiles’ cheek in his hand or hold him or _something_ but Stiles is so battered he’s almost scared to touch him. Now that Stiles has mentioned it again, he sees the maple bat discarded in the middle of the room. He can see the smears of red that lead to where Stiles now lies by the phone.  Derek’s gut churns at the thought of how long it took Stiles’ to even be able to seek help.

“The ambulance is on the way, okay? They’ll be here any second, you’re going to be okay.”

“Thought—he was gonna—”

            Stiles stops before he finishes the sentence; Derek’s stomach turns and the gurgling rasps as Stiles tries to catch his breath;  it leaves little doubt as to the severity of the internal damage Matt managed to inflict. 

            _You thought he was going to kill you,_ Derek finishes mentally since Stiles can’t aloud; it’s not a hard leap to make.  _Hell, he nearly did.   Five more minutes and God knows what state you’d’ve been found in._

“It’s okay now.  We’ll get away from him.”

            “Can’t.”

_You have to. He’ll kill you next time. You have to see that._

             The sound of sirens grows closer, and Derek breathes a sigh of relief.

             “Someone—broke in.”

               It’s not hard to put together the lie he wants Derek to tell.

            “Stiles, I can’t—”

            “Please?” Stiles all but sobs.

            “Okay,” Derek lies to appease Stiles for the moment. “Okay.”

            Stiles goes limp and Derek panics, resisting the urge to shake Stiles back awake.

            “Stiles?! Come on, stay awake.  They’re almost here. Stay awake for me, okay? Please! Stiles!”

           

****************************************************

“Derek?” the sheriff says coming out into the waiting room.

Derek rises to his feet immediately, shirking off Mom’s arm.  The sheriff looks exhausted, but not devastated; Derek takes it as a good enough sign.

“How is he?”

“He’s out of surgery and in the recovery room.  He’s—ah—he’s got a long way to go, but he’ll be okay.”

“Good,” Derek says, forcing a smile.  “That’s good. He’ll—he’ll be back to himself in no time I bet,” he says, trying to reassure himself as much as the sheriff. “He—”

“You told them Matt Daehler did this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Stiles told you that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has he—has he ever indicated that Matt may have been—hurting him?”

The sheriff’s composure is cracking, no matter how hard he may be trying to pretend he’s just objectively gathering information.

“Sheriff?” a nurse calls.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need you to answer a couple questions about some insurance changes so we can complete the care plan for Stiles.”

The sheriff excuses himself and walks away.  Derek takes his seat next to his mother again. She puts her arm back over his shoulders, studying him sadly.

“How long have you known?”

“Known what?”

“You know what I’m asking you, Derek.”

“Not long,” he admits quietly. 

“Why didn’t you tell—”

“I wanted to, but—but he made me promise, Mom, and he said he could handle it.  It wasn’t this bad.  I never thought he’d hurt him like this and I just—it’s complicated, and I—I should’ve told. I should’ve. Stiles could have _died_ or something. What if—what if Matt had—”

“Shhh,” she soothes, pulling him close to rest his head on her shoulder as she plants a kiss to the top of his head like he’s in pre-k not high school.  “He’s safe now, sweetie.  You were trying to be a good friend.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“You’re eighteen years old; you’re not supposed to know how to handle everything. You can’t change what you did.  You just have to choose how to react to what comes next.”

Derek nods.

_I’m going to help him get better. I’m going to keep him safe from Matt if I have to shoot the fucker myself.  I’m going to figure out how to fix all of this._

******************************************************************

“You’re Derek?” the nurse asks as she walks over.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

_Don’t tell me I have to leave. I can’t. Not until he’s at least awake.  I can’t leave yet._

“Sheriff Stilinski wanted to speak with you for a moment, if you could follow me.”

“Yeah, of course.”

_What does he want? He’s probably pissed at me. Or has more questions about Matt? As long as it’s not—_

“Stiles is still okay, right?” Derek wonders worriedly.

“He’s still sedated,” she confirms.  “They’re monitoring his condition closely.”

_So nothing new then. Okay. That’s good. Hopefully. God, the suspense is going to fucking kill me,_

She gestures at the door that must be Stiles’ and turns to go back to the nurse’s station.  Derek knocks softly, not wanting to intrude even though she says he’s wanted.

“Come in,” the sheriff says, and Derek opens the door slowly. 

The sheriff looks exhausted and older than his years.  He’s sitting in the chair by the bed, one hand on Stiles’, and he doesn’t let go when Derek enters.

“The nurse said—”

“I have a favor to ask,” the sheriff says, “and it’s not fair, but I’m going to ask anyway.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t—I can’t be directly involved with the search for Matt, but I can help manage it from the station. I—I don’t want to leave him, but they say he could be out a while even once the sedative wears off and—I can’t just sit here.”

“I understand.”

“He called you before the ambulance.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve—you’ve been trying to look out for him?”

“I should’ve done more. I—”

“I’m not trying to blame you, Derek.  I’m saying—I’m saying you care about my son, and he seems to trust you.”

“Yes, sir.”

_At least I hope he trusts me.  I damn sure care about him._

“If you’re—if you’re going to be waiting around anyway could you—stay with him? So that I can—”

“Of course.”

“I know you have school, but—”

“I wasn’t leaving anyway,” Derek says.  “I can—I could stay and give you updates? I want Matt found as much as you do. He—he shouldn’t get away with this.”

“He won’t,” the sheriff says darkly, and for the first time Derek questions the man’s commitment to abiding the law; he sees why the sheriff shouldn’t be allowed to get directly involved with bringing Matt in.

 

 

**************************************************************

 

            It’s almost 48 hours from Stiles’ phone call for help to him opening his eyes.  He blinks against the light of the street lamp pouring in through the window.  Derek chastises himself for not shutting the blinds.  

            “Hey, don’t move, okay?” Derek says, moving toward the bed.  “They—uh—they said the physical therapist has to be here the first time you sit up to show you how to do it without fucking your ribs up again.”

            _Yeah, don’t fuck up your ribs or your lungs or the other various internal organs with healing contusions.  You’re fucking fragile.  Do you realize that? Do you realize what he did to you? What he could have done? You might’ve died! All that damage it—it’s a fucking miracle you’re not going to be fucked up for life!_

Derek pulls back from the fear-driven frustration, studying Stiles’ face instead as he comes to full consciousness. 

“How—uh—how d’you feel?” Derek asks.

            “Like I got the ever-loving shit beat out of me.”

            “I can call the nurse.  Check your pain meds?”

            “I’m fine.”

            “Are you sure? You—”

            “Does Dad know I’m here?”

            “Yeah, you’ve—uh—been here like two days.”

            “What?”

            “He threw you down the stairs and beat you with a baseball bat; you needed surgery and stitches and—”

            Derek chokes off his words as the frustration rises again.

_You’re breakable, Stiles! You’re not invincible!  You can’t survive him alone, anymore.  Fuck everyone else; you need to take care of yourself right now._

            “Where’s Matt?”

            “He must’ve run when he finally stopped,” Derek replies.  “They’re looking for him, though.”

            “Looking for him? You told them it was Matt?!”

            “He nearly killed you!”

“But he’ll tell—”

            “We’ll figure out what to do about your dad.  We’ll protect him somehow, but you know he wouldn’t want you hurt for the sake of his fucking _job_. He—”

            “His job is his life! It’s all he’s got left and I’m not taking it away from him, too! It’s—it’s just a year. I can do it. I can—”

            “ _Too?_ ”Derek asks. “What’re you talking about? Your dad loves you more than anything in the—”

            “No he doesn’t.”

            The simple certainty behind the words hits Derek like a slap.

            “How can you—”

            “Because _I’m_ the reason he has to drown himself in whiskey to get through the day.  It’s my fucking fault. All of it.  And if karma wants to dish out a literal smack down on me since my dad won’t then—”

            “Whoa, whoa, what the hell are you—”

            “I killed her! I’m the reason my mother is dead! I’m the reason he’s left here with nothing but the annoying little shit of a kid that ruined his life. The only thing I haven’t taken from him is his job, and I’m _not_ adding that final nail in the coffin. I’m not.  It’ll kill him to lose that job, and I’m not going to be the reason _both_ my parents are gone.  I’m not! I’m going to suck it up and keep Matt happy and—”

            “You did not kill your mom—”

            “How the _fuck_ would you know? You don’t know me. You don’t know him—except that you’re probably going to end up the son he always wanted—it’s none of your fucking business how our family works.  It’s not your job to ride in on your white horse and save the fucking day by defeating the evil monster Matt because the monster is _me._ It’s my fault, all of it, and you can’t fucking save me because I _don’t want you to_!”

            With the last words he tries to sit up, though Derek’s told him not to. He yelps in pain, and Derek rushes forward like there’s something he can do to help.

            “Don’t touch me!” Stiles commands.  “Get out! Just get the fuck out! No one asked you to throw yourself in the middle of this! I never asked you to do this!”

            “Stiles—”

            “Out!” Stiles demands.

            “What the hell is going on in here?” Nurse McCall asks, bursting in the door.

            Derek doesn’t answer, just looks to Stiles.  If Stiles really wants him gone, he’ll go back to the waiting room, but he hopes that’s not the case.

            “Nothing, sorry,” Stiles replies.  “I just—I’m fine.”

            “How’s your pain, Stiles? How do you feel?”

            “I’m okay.”

            “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.  He’ll come check on you soon, okay?”

            “Yeah, sure, thanks.”

            “If you need anything, just press the call button, okay?” she reminds.

            She leaves, shutting the door softly behind her, and Derek waits for Stiles to break the silence before he tries to speak again.

“Shit,” Stiles mutters into the tense quiet.  “I didn’t—I know it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have—”

“You’re upset; you’re exhausted. It’s okay.”

            “I am,” Stiles agrees, closing his eyes and pursing his lips like he’s holding back tears. “God, Derek I’m just so fucking tired.  Tired of everything.  I just want all of it to go away.”

            There’s desolation in his tone that makes Derek wants to weep, and he can’t help closing the space between them, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.

            “Shhhh,” Derek soothes, wiping at the tears that have escaped the corner of Stiles’ swollen eyes.  “We’ll figure it all out, okay? You and me.  We’ll keep your dad’s job safe and we’ll get you away from Matt.  It’ll take some time, but we’ll work it out.”

            “We can’t. We—”

“You can’t think straight right now,” Derek pacifies.  “You’re hurting, you’re upset, but it’ll be better when you wake up.  Just—just get some rest and then we’ll start talking it out. It’ll seem better when you wake up. I promise.”

 _Because when you wake_ _up, your dad’s going to be on your side. I’m still going to be on your side. And between the three of us  we’re going to take this son of a bitch down and get you some real fucking help.  Your dad’s re-election be damned._

*************************************************************

 

            “Derek?”

  
            “Sheriff, Stiles woke up.”

            “Put him on the phone. I—”

            “He’s asleep again.  He was still pretty exhausted, but they say all his vitals are still looking strong.  He’ll probably be awake again in an hour or two, and I—I need to talk to you before he wakes up again.”

            “If this is about Matt you should really make a formal statement.  I’ll have a deputy come to—”

            “Off the record,” Derek says.  “It should be off the record.”

            “Okay,” the sheriff agrees, skepticism still prominent in his voice.  “I’ll—let me wrap up just a couple things here.  I’ll see you in twenty minutes.  That okay, Derek?”

            “Yeah, that’s good.”

 

********************************************************

 

            “He seemed okay when he woke up?” the sheriff asks, staring sadly at his son’s sleeping form.

            “Yeah, he did,” Derek assures.  “Why—uh—why don’t you sit?” he suggests, scooting the chair back from the bed and vacating it.

            “Derek, what is this about?”

            “It’s—it’s about why he let things with Matt get this bad.”

            “So it has—it has been going on for—a while?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            The confirmation puts such a heartbroken look on the sheriff’s face that Derek almost can’t bear to share the whole truth, but the sheriff’s been protected long enough.  Stiles needs that protection now.

            “How long?”

            “I’m not sure exactly.”

            “And he told you this?”

            “I—uh—I found out.”

            “And you couldn’t fucking tell someone? What the hell is wrong with you? You—”

            “He said he would swear it was me,” Derek interrupts defensively, keeping his yell to a hiss for Stiles’ sake.  “I’m not saying that should’ve stopped me. I’m not fucking proud of it, but there’s a reason he was so damn determined to keep it a secret, and that’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

            Derek glances at Stiles, making sure the outburst hasn’t woken him, but he’s still sleeping soundly. 

            “Then tell me.”

            “He—” Derek swallows nervously, praying the sheriff will believe his words.  “He’s been trying to protect you—your reputation.”

            “What?” the sheriff asks, clearly dumbfounded.

            “Matt’s seen how you drink.  He took videos and pictures without Stiles knowing, and when he thought Stiles was going to break up with him, he used it as leverage to keep Stiles from leaving.”

            “Not that it’s any of your business, but my drinking is not nearly enough of a problem to give Matt _blackmail._  I may be the sheriff, but I’m still entitled to a good stiff drink when—”

            “All due respect, I’ve seen you drunk, and the fact that you don’t remember that should tell you enough.”

            “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “Your anniversary.  I came by to drop off some papers, and you were falling all over yourself.  Breaking vases and glasses until Stiles put you in your recliner and took away your drink—even though you were still asking for another.”

            “Stiles—Stiles tripped and broke that vase,” the sheriff says in disbelief.  “He—he owned up to it when I asked the next day and—.” the sheriff turns from Derek to look at Stiles.  “I yelled at him for it.  It was his mother’s favorite, and I—I grounded him and—” He turns back to Derek.  “But it was me. How could I not see that? I had cuts all over my hands. I—”

            “He’s been taking good care of you,” Derek says, “for a long time I think.”

            “Jesus Christ, he’s my _son._ He’s seventeen. What the hell is—I—no, it can’t—it can’t be that bad.  I would _know._ I would—I would know. I—” 

            “Dad?” Stiles murmurs quietly, stirring.

            “Hey, kiddo, yeah, it’s me,” his father answers, clearing his throat to achieve his normal tone of voice.  “How ya feeling?”

            “I’m okay.”

            “Stiles, why—why didn’t you tell me he was hurting you?”

            “It’s the first time,” Stiles swears.  “He was just really upset.  He—he had a bad day and his phone got stolen and he saw that I was looking at colleges far away.  He just—”

            _And his phone got stolen._

Guilt churns in Derek’s gut at the words.

_Oh fuck._

_This is my fault. I set Matt off._

_I’m so fucking sorry, Stiles. So sorry._

“I’m not an idiot, son,” the sheriff interrupts quietly.  “This is an escalation; he’s hurt you before.” When Stiles doesn’t answer immediately the sheriff continues, “Hasn’t he?”

            “Yes,” Stiles admits, sounding ashamed and averting his eyes like it’s somehow his own fault.

            “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped you.  You know you can tell me anything.”

            “It wasn’t that bad, Dad. He—he loves me. I didn’t want him to get in trouble so I didn’t tell.”

            “Oh, son, you—”

            “Stop it,” Derek commands more harshly than he means to. 

            “Excuse me?” the sheriff says, turning to Derek.

            “Not you,” Derek explains quickly, trying to regain composure after the outburst. “I meant—I meant Stiles.”

            “Stop what?” Stiles asks. 

            “I told him the truth.”

            “About what?”

            “About the drinking and the blackmail and the—”

            “No,” Stiles protests.  “Why would you—no, Dad, it’s not true. It’s not. He was lying to you he was—”

            “Oh God,” the sheriff murmurs as the obvious lie from his son leads him closer to the truth. “Stiles, he—you stayed with him to—to hide my drinking?”

            “No, Dad, no! It’s not that! It wasn’t! I—”

            “Please don’t lie to me, not after everything.  I want to hear the truth, Stiles. The whole truth.”

            “Dad—”

            “ _Stiles._ ”

            Stiles gaze darts back and forth between his father and Derek like a trapped animal desperate for any means of escape.  He opens and closes his mouth as though he can’t quite figure out how he should respond.  Finally his face, crumples and he drops his gaze to his lap like _he’s_ the one with something to be ashamed of.

            “He has videos, Dad,” Stiles admits woefully. 

“Videos?”

“They’re really not that bad, ‘cause I get it.  I know I’m a pain in the ass and sometimes you just need to blow off steam. But other people—they wouldn’t understand it.  You’d never get re-elected, and it’s not fair ‘cause—because the drinking doesn’t make you a bad sheriff. You’re the best sheriff this town could ask for and you love your job and—”

            “Son, being a good sheriff doesn’t mean shit if I’m not a good father,” the older man asserts, wiping at the tears spilling from his distraught child’s eyes.  “God, if your mother were here—”

            At the mention of his mom Stiles sobs in earnest, whining at the pain it must cause him with his injured lungs and rib cage.  The sheriff tries to soothe him, but Stiles can’t be comforted it seems. 

            “I’m sorry it was her and not me,” Stiles wails, “God, Dad, I’m so fucking sorry.  I know it’s my fault. I—”

            “Hey,” the sheriff interrupts though Stiles continues to apologize.  “Stiles! Look at me!” he orders, and the harshness of his tone seems to startle Stiles to silence.  “What happened to your mother was not your fault.”

            “I called her to come get me from Scott’s.  I was scared.  She shouldn’t have been on the road that late.  It was my fault. It was all my fault. It should’ve been me but you lost her instead, and—and then you had to look at me every day.  The little bastard that ruined your life and I know you hate me but you have to pretend you don’t and—”

            “Jesus Christ, Stiles, no, that’s not true. None of that’s true, none of it.  You matter more than anything else in this world.  I love you so much.  _So_ much, Stiles.  I could never, ever blame you or hate you or—”

            It seems both Stilinskis have reached the extent of their ability to speak through tears.  Derek feels like an intruder and backs slowly toward the door.  It’s painful and pitiful to watch.  He can only imagine the countless overwhelming emotions rushing both of them.  He ducks out as Nurse McCall comes in to check why Stiles’ vitals are going haywire.  He still can’t bring himself to leave, so he plops into a seat in the waiting room again, reaching for the _Sports Illustrated_ on the coffee table and pretending he’s reading it instead of slowly coming apart with empathy. 

            _It’s the first step toward things getting better. It’s good.  They both needed that conversation.  It’ll help everything get better._

But Derek still can’t drive their aggrieved faces from his mind.

            


	11. Chapter 11 - Stiles

            “What’s this?” Stiles asks when Dad comes into the room looking somber and hands him a piece of paper. 

            “Something I should have known to do a long time ago,” Dad replies.

            Stiles glances down at the page

            _I, John Stilinski, hereby submit my resignation from the post of Sheriff of Beacon Hills…_

“No!” Stiles protests.  “No, Dad, you can’t. You can’t give up your job, not for me, not for _anything._ You can’t hand is in!”  He rips the paper in two.  “I won’t let you.”

            “Too late,” Dad tells him with a shrug.  “I gave the original to Bonnie this morning, along with a request for medical leave of absence for the next three weeks.”

            “ _What_?”

            “There’s a—” Dad pauses, averting his eyes as though he can’t look his son in the face to talk about it. “There’s a rehab program that has out-patient counseling. I’ll—I’ll go there for a few days until—until detox is done and then—I should be out in time to take you home.”

            “Dad—”

            “I let you down, son.”

            “No, Dad, you didn’t. You—”

            “If your mother could see the way I’ve—how blind I’ve been and—” he chokes off the confession, takes a deep breath, and continues, “but I’m going to make it right.  I’m going to get my head out of my ass, you’re going to get healed up, we’re going to get better together, you and me, kiddo? Okay?”

            “Yeah, Dad, that—that sounds awesome.”

            His dad smiles sadly. 

“We’ll get to where we should’ve been all along.”

            “You don’t totally suck, you know,” Stiles replies. “It’s not like I’ve been living in terror or something. You just—you drink too much sometimes.  There are worse things.”

            “That still doesn’t make what I’ve done okay.  You shouldn’t be taking care of me or protecting me.  That’s _my_ job, Stiles. I should’ve been looking out for you.”

            “You did, though. You—”

            “We got by,” Dad corrects, “but you deserve more than that.”

“Dad, don’t guilt yourself out.  You—you lost mom, and you had me to deal with and—”

“Stiles,” Dad interrupts.  “Don’t _ever_ talk about yourself like you’re a burden I’m stuck with.  I’m damn proud to be your Dad, and I’m sorry I’ve done a shitty job of it since your mother died. I just—I let things get out of hand, and I’m sorry.  Don’t you ever think any of that is your fault.”

            Stiles can feel the tears welling up in his eyes for what seems like the millionth time since he woke in the hospital yesterday.  He still keeps waiting for the moment this dream shatters and he crashes back to reality.

            “Thank you, Dad.”

            “Nah, kid, all the credit to you on this one,” he counters.  “You’re the only reason there’s a family left to make right.”  


 

************************************************************

 

            Every moment that Derek isn’t in school, he’s with Stiles. 

            “I know Coach has to be giving you shit for missing practice.”

            Derek shrugs.  “Not to sound cocky here, but he can’t afford to bench me at the games.”

            “True, and he doesn’t have the moral high horse to do it out of spite.”        

            “Exactly,” Derek agrees, “Besides, he knows where I am.  He knows it’s important.”

            “Wish I could come to the game.”

            “You couldn’t sit up on your own until yesterday.”

            “So?”

            “So you almost died.  Take a little time to recuperate.  They’ll have the game on the radio.”

            “Not the same.”

            “It’ll have to do,” Derek replies, “and I’ll come by after—ya know, if you want.”

            _Hell yeah I want._

“Dude, you’ve got after parties and shit to go to.”

            Derek shrugs.  “They’re not that great.”

            “Come after the party.  Don’t miss the fun on account of me.”

            “You’re fun,” Derek argues, and Stiles can’t help but grin.

            “Am I?”

            “Don’t be an idiot.  Of course you’re fun.”

            Silence falls between them a moment or two.  Derek seems comfortable enough with it, and it makes Stiles unreasonably happy.  It’s like Derek belongs here.  It’s just _easy_ , and maybe Stiles was just stuck with Matt for too long, but to not spend every moment looking for signs of Derek’s mood or trying to guess what he’ll do next is wonderfully relaxing.

            “Are you okay?” Derek wonders.

            It’s only then that Stiles realizes he’s been staring at him; he can feel a blush rising to his cheeks.

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m good, just—thinking.”

            _About how much you’ve done for me and my dad.  About how you really don’t seem to expect anything from me in return.  About how insanely gorgeous my knight in shining armor is and if I can convince you to kiss me one day and finish the “saving and whisking away to happiness” thing._

            “Hey, Derek?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Thank you.”

            “For what?” Derek asks with a confused smile.

            “Being here.”

            Derek’s eyes fall from Stiles’ as all trace of a grin leaves his face. 

            “I should’ve gotten you help sooner.”

            “Derek, if you—if you hadn’t been there, I really—really don’t know what I would’ve done.”

            It scares Stiles a little how true those words are.

            “Called an ambulance like a normal person,” Derek teases, trying to bring the conversation to a lighter tone.

            “No, I mean before that—the calls and everything—it just—I dunno. It helped a lot, and I should’ve said that then, maybe, but it seemed kind of like an embarrassing thing to say, and I didn’t want to freak you out, but, given that you’ve been here while all the shit hit the fan, this isn’t the weirdest thing I could say to you right now so—it’s fucking cheesy, and I hope you already know I’m grateful but I never said it and—well, now I did. I guess.”

            Derek smiles again, and Stiles decides it’s worth sounding like a rambling idiot for a minute if this is the look he’s rewarded with.

            “I’m glad it helped,” Derek says.  “Even more glad I can talk to you sometime besides one in the morning now.”

            “Right?”

            “Not that I minded.”

            Stiles is quiet a moment or two before he wonders, “Did you hear they found Matt?”

            “Yeah, I did.”

            “Judge Little won’t post bail for him, so he—he’s behind bars at least ‘til the trial.”

            “They’ll put him away, Stiles.  He’s not going to hurt you again,” Derek assures.

            Stiles wishes he really believed it, but Matt’s so seared into his psyche that he has to wonder.  He’s been an inescapable threat for so long Stiles almost can’t imagine a world where he really doesn’t have to worry about him anymore.

            “Your Dad’s got a deputy downstairs, too,” Derek reminds.  “You know that, don’t you?”

            “Yeah, I know.”

            “You’re safe. I swear.”

            _God I fucking hope so.  He’d kill me next time for sure._

********************************************

 

            Dad looks like shit when he walks back into Stiles’ hospital room.  It’s been four days, but you’d think it’s been _years_ since his father laid eyes on him by the way he’s looking at Stiles now.  Then again, maybe it has been years since he’s _really_ seen his son.

            “How ya feelin’, kiddo?” Dad asks.

            “Better than you look.”

            “Well enough to be a smartass,” Dad says with an exaggerated frown.  “I guess I’ll take that as a good sign.”

            His face breaks into a smile as he pulls a grease-stained paper sack from behind his back.

            “Got us a little contraband,” he says. 

            “Curly fries?!”

            “Jeez, Stiles, keep it down.  You’ll get us both busted.”

            “Dad of the year.  Right now. I’m ordering you a plaque. This hospital food is going to kill me, I swear.  That orange Jell-O cannot possibly be classified as food. I mean it.   We should start an investigation.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Dad agrees, with a huff of laughter.   “I’ll add that right to the top of the to-do list.”

            Dad hands him his fries and takes a seat on the edge of Stiles bed to nibble at his own.  They’re quiet a while, Stiles shoving his face full of warm, fried, potatoey goodness and Dad seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

            “How you feel, Dad?” Stiles wonders.  “You okay?”

            “Yeah, of course.”

            “Don’t bullshit me.”

            “Watch your tone.”

            “Dude, we are so far past—”

            “ _Stiles—”_

“Okay, okay, fine.  I still want an honest answer.”

            His father sighs heavily before admitting, “It’s gonna be rough, but I’m getting there.”

            “The only person more stubborn than you is me,” Stiles tells him.  “You’ll make it.”

            _And I’m so fucking proud of you for even trying._

*************************************************************

 

            “Did you listen?” Derek wonders, face still alight with excitement when he comes into the room still wearing his lacrosse jersey. 

            “And Hale scores the winning shot with less than ten seconds to spare!” Stiles repeats in his best announcer voice.  “The crowd goes wild!”

            Derek barks out a laugh.

            “Dude, it was awesome!” Stiles goes on.  “You could hear them chanting your name in the background of the broadcast.”

            “Really?” Derek asks bashfully.

            “Sounded like they were ready to carry you off the field on their shoulders, oh, Capitan.”

            “They kinda did,” he admits with a shy, proud smile that _melts_ Stiles where he lies. 

            “Kind of?” the sheriff questions.

            “Greenburg tripped halfway across the field,” Derek expounds.  “I landed on my feet, though. No worries.”

            “Dude, don’t make me laugh,” Stiles says as he wheezes out a chuckle.  “My ribs hate you.”

            Derek’s face drops just a little, worry lines creasing his forehead.

            “Sorry.”

            “Don’t be, I’m fine, just—” Stiles huffs another laugh.  “Fucking Greenburg.”

            “Yeah, the guy fails at life so hard it’s sad.”

            “So there’s no way you’re going to convince me that the guy who won them the game didn’t get a dozen invitations to go out after the game.”

            “Maybe,” Derek replies with a shrug. 

            “So then what the hell are you doing here?”

            “I told you I’d come.”

            “I told you to go have some fun first.”

            Derek shrugs again like he doesn’t have an excuse, and it’s fucking adorable when he mumbles embarrassedly, “I mean, I can go if you want. I—”

            “No, that’s not—not what I meant just—”

            “I know it’s your first night with your Dad. I don’t want to intrude. I just—”

            “Honestly, Derek,” the sheriff says.  “I think you’re just about part of the family.”

            “Hell yeah,” Stiles agrees with a grin.

            _Although I’m definitely hoping we can head that in the boyfriend direction and not the brotherly direction but I’ll take what I can get._

            “Our thrilling plans for the evening include the original Star Wars Trilogy and moderately decent Chinese food,” Dad says.  “You in?”

            “Yeah,” Derek agrees readily.  “I’m totally in.”

 

********************************************************

            “So,” Dad says over a breakfast of horribly bland oatmeal, half-decent fruit, and more of that inedible goddamn Jell-O.  “Tell me about Derek.”

            “What about Derek?” Stiles deflects.  “You know him.  You’re the one who works with him.”

            “I do know him,” Dad agrees.  “I want to know how _you_ know him.”

            “Lacrosse.”

            “And?”

            “And he taught that self-defense class.”

            “Where he figured out what was going on with Matt?”

            “Yeah.”

            “How long ago?”

            “Um—after—after the second trip to the hospital? Dad, don’t—don’t be mad at him for not telling,” Stiles pleads.  “I told him—I told him if he did tell I’d swear to everyone he was the one who beat me up and that Matt would back it up.”

            “Talk about rock and a hard place.”

            “Yeah, asshole move but I—I didn’t know what else to do, ya know? I couldn’t let him tell.  I figured he’d get pissed at the threat and leave it alone.”

            “But he didn’t.”

            “He made me call him to check in,” Stiles says, smiling a little at the memories.  “Just—ya know, asking how my day was, wanting to know if Matt was getting worse.  He’d meet me at the cemetery sometimes.  He goes to see his family like I go to see Mom and—” Stiles’ grin widens.  “He met Mom—talked to her and everything. He—”  Stiles stops short at the pained look on Dad’s face.  “Shit, sorry, I know you hate when I talk about her like she’s there. I shouldn’t—”

            “No, that’s—that’s okay,” Dad assures.  “I’m glad you still go. Maybe I’ll—uh—maybe I’ll go with you next time, huh? If you’re okay with that?”

            “Yeah, of course,” Stiles agrees immediately.

            Dad hasn’t been to the grave since the day they buried her.

            “So he met Mom,” Dad repeats, “Go on.”

            “And we like the same kind of music and stuff so we shared albums and stuff and he—he just tried a lot harder to be there than he had to.  Like he should’ve told me to fuck off a long time ago but—he’s here—and he’s been here, and—”

            “And you’re totally falling for him,” Dad supposes, teasing smile on his face.

            “Shut up.”

            “Tell me I’m wrong.”

            Stiles is silent for a while.

            “He’s a big lacrosse star.  He’s a senior.  He’s—fucking gorgeous.  He would never date me.”

            “You know I played baseball in high school,” Dad says.

            “Yeah, what does that have to do with—”

            “And the night we won region, I didn’t go to the parties,” Dad continues.  “Want to know why?”

            “Why?” Stiles asks obligingly.

            “Because your mom was home sick with the flu,” Dad replies, smiling.  “So I took her some shitty tomato soup and a grilled cheese from this diner down the road from her house.”

            “ _Dad,_ come on—”

            “I swear,” Dad says, gesturing Scout’s Honor. 

            “Derek Hale does not want to date me,” Stiles reiterates.

            “Don’t give up hope just yet,” Dad persists with a knowing grin.

            _Damn, it would be awesome if you’re right._

******************************************************************

 

            They stop by the cemetery on the way home from the hospital.  Dad won’t let Stiles get out of the truck. Stiles feels a little guilty for finding it kind of awesome to have Dad taking such meticulous care of him.  It’s not the usual gruff “buck up, son” kind of treatment, and Stiles is enjoying the change in dynamic, though he’s already getting a little annoyed of being treated like he’s made of glass.

            Dad walks slowly toward Mom’s headstone, like a kid headed for a lecture.  Stiles expects him to drop the new flowers in their vase and comes straight back, but Dad lingers. Stiles smiles, hoping it’s a sign of change in the way Dad feels when he thinks of her now.

“He’s already so much better, Mom,” Stiles murmurs quietly.  “I really think he’s going to stop drinking so much.  You know, all this time I—just knew he must hate me so much for getting you killed, but I guess maybe I just hated myself.  He’s been so fucking awesome, Mom.  It’s like I’m the only thing that exists to him.  He gets—gets this goofy grin on his face when he makes me laugh.  He says he’s going to buy all kinds of shit so we can start camping again once I’m better—like we used to, remember?”  Stiles pauses a moment as Dad turns and starts walking back toward the car, tears in his eyes but a smile on his face.  “I think we’re gonna be okay,” he confesses, “even will all this shit to deal with for the trial and the doctor visits and the rehab counseling and shit, I think we’re really gonna be okay.” 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12 - Derek

            It’s none of Derek’s business what’s in the copy of Stiles’ medical records on the table.  The sheriff—no, not the sheriff anymore; Deputy Stilinski—asked him to take them into work tomorrow, not snoop through them. 

“Have a look if you want,” Mr. Stilinski offers, startling Derek just a little.

            “Nah, I should get back in to the movie and—”

            “He’s so dead to the world he’s snoring.  He won’t miss you.”

            Derek studies the stack a moment longer before setting the bowl of popcorn aside and taking a seat at the table.  Mr. Stilinski goes about making himself a bowl of cereal, but Derek swears he can feel the man’s eyes on him as he sifts through the files.

            _Three fractured ribs…punctured lung…contusions to liver and kidney…rupture of the spleen…mild head trauma…slashes to face and arms…hairline fracture on the patella…shattering within the carpals and phalanges of the right hand…_

“Jesus Christ,” Derek mutters, the simultaneous urges to vomit and kill something rising in him at the monstrous list.

            “He’s got a long way to go.  He’s lucky he got to a phone when he did.  If he’d lain there until I got off my shift…”

            Derek’s glad he doesn’t finish the thought aloud. 

            “I need to be sure Matt gets punished as fully as possible for this,” Mr. Stilinski says quietly.  “I know it’s not—nothing will be good enough to me,” he admits.  “I’m Stiles’ father, so there is nothing remotely reasonable or just about what I’d like to see happen to that psychotic little bastard who hurt him like this. I just—I have to at least see him punished as much as the law allows—as many charges as we can bring against him, as much time as they can possibly give him, just—he should pay for what he did.”

            “Damn straight,” Derek agrees. 

            “But Stiles won’t—he doesn’t want to talk about any of it,” he goes on, stating something Derek already knows.  “And if we can’t get his statements, the case is going to be a lot weaker. There’s only so far we can go with the physical evidence, even if it’s a solid case, there’s part we’re missing. There’s things Matt did that—that will go unpunished and I—I don’t want that to happen, so I need to ask for your help again.”

            “My help?”

            “He trusts you.”

            “I hope he does.”

            “I’m not sure if he’s trying to keep me from feeling guilty, or if he’s ashamed to admit some of it after the—the poor way I handled the news that he’d gotten mugged and then beat up, but I’m wondering—if maybe you went in with him to give the statement he could be more—forthcoming?”

            “I don’t know that he—”

            “If he can’t talk about it, then he can’t talk about it,” Mr. Stilinski says matter of factly, “and we’ll do the best we can with the evidence we have, but if you could at least offer to go,” he goes on hopefully, “I’d be incredibly grateful.”

            “Okay,” Derek agrees.  “Sure, I can mention it to him.”

            “Thank you.”

            “No problem.”

            “And Derek?”

            “Sir?”

            “I don’t—I’m not sure why you’ve stood by my son the way you have, but I’m damn glad he has you.”

            “Just trying to be a good friend,” Derek replies.

            _And also maybe starting to fall for the resilient smartass snoring in the next room, but now’s not the time to explore that—whatever it is, it’s not just a crush anymore._

**************************************************

 

            “Okay, so we just—hit record I guess,” Derek says with a shrug, pressing the small red button on the tape recorder and setting it on the desk in Stiles’ room—well, the guest room where they’ve moved all of Stiles’ things until he can walk up the stairs again.  “And then we can just—talk, ya know?”

            “Ha, yeah, just talk, no big deal, right?” Stiles mutters.  “Totally not horrible or embarrassing or—”

            “You don’t have to do this.”

            “I know.”

            “You want to stop?”

            “No, just—I don’t even know where to start, dude.”

            Derek takes a seat on the bed beside Stiles.

            “Tell me—tell me about the first time he got violent with you,” Derek replies, “even if it was little.”

            Derek’s thinking back to all the times he’s observed the deputies question witnesses and suspects.   They gave him a list of questions he should try to ask, but he felt like bringing a list in here would ruin the “just two friends talking” vibe that they’re trying to go for.  He hopes he doesn’t forget anything important.  Schrader said the key is to lead Stiles to the place where the words start to come easily and the story cascades out on its own.

            _Please don’t let me fuck this up.  Let them get what they need. Let it help Stiles._

            “He slapped me,” Stiles says.  “But then I punched him,” he adds with a shrug, “so I don’t know if that counts.”

            “Why’d he slap you?”

            “I don’t remember.  I mouthed off or something?”

            “And when you punched him?”

            “He shoved me back, told me to stop being such a pussy about it.  Then he just acted like it never happened, and I dunno—I didn’t think a lot about it.  I mean, you mess with your friend like that sometimes, ya know? Punch your bro in the shoulder or whatever.”

            “So you thought Matt was messing with you?”

            “I hoped he was just kinda messing with me.”

            “Were you scared of him?”

            “Not at first. I just—I just thought he was being an asshole. That’s why—why I tried to break up with him.”

            “And how’d he react?”

            “He gave me a black eye, and I gave him a nosebleed, but once he showed me he had the videos, I couldn’t—I couldn’t fight that.”

            “When was that?”

            “Um…six months ago? Seven? I don’t remember exactly.  And from that first hit he just kept getting more and more explosive. The most random shit would set him off, and he always thought I was trying to leave him somehow, even though he knew damn well I couldn’t fucking leave him, not with the blackmail he had, and—and it was easier to just go with his moods than to fight it I guess.  It seemed to help if I just—just acted like it was all fine.  There were a lot of days that weren’t that bad I guess.  I just took the bad days because what the hell else was I going to do.  He just—he kept getting worse, but he kept getting more blackmail, too, so I just got more and more stuck with him and I loved him less and less and now I fucking hate him. I mean—look—look what he did to me, and I was begging him to stop, fucking _begging_ and he didn’t even hesitate.  I swear to God I thought he was going to kill me this time. I mean, I’ve wondered before,” Stiles goes on. “Once he—he started to—to choke me sometimes I started to wonder, but—but I really thought—”

            “He can’t hurt you anymore,” Derek promises, throwing an arm over Stiles’ shoulder because it seems more a “just friends” thing to do than hold Stiles’ hand.

            “He wouldn’t just hurt me if he was here,” Stiles says miserably. “If he—if he ever gets the chance, he’ll kill me.  Especially now that I’ve told people what he’s done.”

            “That’s what the statement’s for,” Derek reminds him. “He’ll be in jail, Stiles. He won’t be able to hurt you.”

            “He’ll get out sometime!” Stiles retorts.  “He’ll get out again. What happens then, huh? What happens when he gets out and comes back? When he shoves me down the stairs again? When he reaches for the baseball bat and I can’t block anything past the second swing because he shatters my fucking hand? When my only fucking chance to keep him from beating me to death is to meet him at the door with a smile and a kiss and hope I can convince him to just let me suck him off instead of wanting to fuck me ‘til—”

            Stiles chokes the words off into a sob, burying his head in his hands.  Derek holds tighter to him as his stomach churns at the implications of the words.

            “Stiles, did he—did he force you to—”

            God help him, Derek can’t even finish the question.

            “I fucking offered it,” Stiles laments.  “I fucking offered to get him off because it was the best way to make sure he wasn’t as pissed at me.  What the hell is wrong with me? Kissing and blowing and fucking a guy that I _hate_ —God I hate him so fucking much but it—it seemed—it seemed better than letting him wail on me.  It’s—it’s a lot easier to believe someone who says he loves you while he fucks you than while he punches and kicks and stays so goddamn careful to make it so people can’t see.  It just—I didn’t—it made it all just a little more bearable, and—and God, I’m pathetic. I’m so pathetic.  Couldn’t control him so I just—offered myself up like a fucking whore to—to the maniac who got off on strangling me.  What the _fuck_ is wrong with me?”

            “Shhhh,” Derek soothes, pulling Stiles into a hug before he can help himself, but Stiles lets in happen, burying his face into Derek’s shoulder as he continues to cry, sobs heaving his wounded chest and it must be painful but he can’t seem to stop. 

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Stiles,” Derek swears.  “Nothing.  You were trying to survive him.  You were taking the logical path. It’s—it’s not your fault, you know that, right? Something is wrong with _Matt_ not you.  You were trying to be strong for your Dad. You’re not weak or a whore or any of that, okay? You were the _victim_ of hispsychotic bullshit.  It’s not your fault.”

            Whatever Stiles’ says in response is too muffled and garbled by his weeping for Derek to understand, but Derek figures it’s a safe bet to respond with, “It’ll all get better now. You’ll see.  He’s going to have to answer to what he put you through, and he’s never going to touch you again, I fucking _swear_ to you, Stiles.  You’ve got your dad and me and the whole fucking department.  Matt’s never going to hurt you again.”

            _Over my dead body.  If I have to fucking follow you around as your personal body guard when he gets out of prison, I will.  We’ll keep him away from you.  You finally got away, and we’re never going to let him get back to you. You’re safe now. You deserve to feel safe now._

“And, Stiles, the more—the more you can tell me about what he did, the more it’ll help the case,” Derek continues, knowing he needs to get as much out of Stiles as he can, though he hates himself for dragging this moment out. “I know—I know it’s hard but—anything you can talk about.  When you’re ready to—”

            It’s all Derek can do to keep a straight face as Stiles describes more of the abuse: when Matt started using a belt instead of just his fists, Stiles bandaging his own wounds when Matt wouldn’t let him go to the ER, wearing clothes to make sure all of his bruises were hidden, cleaning cuts and hoping they wouldn’t get infected and how the scars aren’t ever going to go away.  It makes Derek seethe in anger, but what really ignites the rage is when Stiles begins to speak of how Matt started to bring the abuse into the bedroom: choking Stiles, tying him up, and other things Derek can’t even make out through the broken cries Stiles can’t keep in. 

            _Nothing they can do to Matt is punishment enough._

Derek wishes they hadn’t found Matt yet so he could have a chance at him.   His fingers itch to shoot the bastard or rip him limb from limb or give him a taste of his own medicine and beat the shit out of him; hell, maybe a combo of all three.  Derek’s on fire with the need to do something, _anything_ to make this better, and it’s killing him that he can’t.  Even if he could vent this fury on the son of a bitch, it won’t erase what Stiles has gone through.  All Derek can do is hold Stiles as he dissolves completely into tears, clearly pushed to the limit of emotional endurance by the lengthy confession.

            “Shhhh, I got you,” Derek says.  “You’re safe now, Stiles.  It’s all gonna be okay.”

 

*****************************************************************

 

            “We should—uh—start dinner or something,” Stiles says, finally breaking the moment.

            It’s taken a while for his sobbing to devolve to quiet crying that ended up with him just slumped against Derek, clearly exhausted and unwilling to move.  Derek feels a little guilty for just how pleased he is that Stiles didn’t pull away from him the minute he was coherent again.  Now’s not the time for the smile that starts at the thought or the warm, fuzzy feeling it gives him. 

            “Okay,” Derek agrees, letting go when Stiles pulls away slowly, like he doesn’t want to break the contact either.

            _He was upset and I comforted him. It’s not that fucking special. It doesn’t mean anything.  I’ve got to stop projecting my feelings onto him._

“Oh shit, look at your shirt,” Stiles says, blushing in embarrassment.  “That’s disgusting, dude. I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s no big deal,” Derek replies with a shrug, glancing down at the large damp stain on his chest from Stiles’ tears and snot. 

            “You can borrow one of mine,” Stiles offers.  “We’ll throw yours in the washer.”

            “It’s okay.”

            “Seriously, I insist. Don’t make me hobble my crippled ass over there and get you one.”

            Derek sighs and rises obligingly to his feet, stripping off his own shirts as he walks over to the dresser.  It’s not the first time Stiles has seen him shirtless; they played lacrosse together. Still, Derek can’t help feeling a little shy under his gaze now.

            “Top drawer,” Stiles instructs, and Derek pulls out the first shirt his hand falls on, regretting it instantly as he slips it over his head.   The fabric pulls much too tight across his shoulders and chest.

            “I—uh—don’t think it really fits.”

            “There’s some bigger shirts in there,” Stiles says, clearly holding back a laugh.  “One of them’s got to fit over your annoyingly muscular shoulders.”

            “Annoyingly muscular?” Derek repeats, swapping the first shirt for another with the same result. “What does that even mean?”

            “Nothing,” Stiles says, a blush rising in his cheeks.  “Just—uh—I guess maybe—there’s a black one in there that’s way too big for me.  My aunt Joanie sent it for Christmas last year and I never bothered to return it.”

            “This one?”

            “Yeah.”

            Derek dons the shirt, and it fits snugly but much better than the others.  He closes the drawer and turns back to Stiles who’s gaping at him.

            “What?” Derek asks, looking down to examine the shirt for some stain or hole he didn’t notice.

“Nothing,” Stiles says quickly, clearing his throat and getting his expression in check.  “That one definitely fits better.  You should—uh—you should just keep it. I can’t wear it anyway.”

            “Thanks.”

            Stiles stands shakily on his good leg, plopping down hard enough into his wheelchair that he grimaces.

            “You’re supposed to wait for one of us to help you,” Derek replies.

            “You’re worse than the nurses.  I’m fine.”

            “You’re not fine; you’re just stubborn.”

            Stiles shrugs but doesn’t argue.  “I’ll still let you push.”

            “Only because you haven’t figured out how to wheel yourself with one hand.”

            As broken as his body may be, Stiles’ resolve is incredibly impressive.  The real challenge as he heals is going to be keeping his energy contained enough to let his injuries fully heal.  His eyes are still red from crying and yet he’s already cracking jokes and acting petulant to deflect the tension and pain that built in the earlier conversation about Matt.

            _You are so much stronger than you think you are, Stiles._

“We could just order out, you know,” Stiles reminds Derek.  “Or make Dad pick something up from the deli at the store.”

            “It’s frozen lasagna,” Derek reminds him.  “It’s not that difficult.”

            “You’re not tired of dealing with Stilinski family bullshit yet?”         

            “No,” Derek answers simply, “I—” he stops short when he turns to see Stiles staring at him again.  “Okay, seriously, what’s wrong with the shirt?”

            “Nothing’s wrong with the shirt.”

            “You keep staring at me.”

            “No, I don’t.”

            “Yes, you—”

            “It looks good on you, okay?” Stiles replies. “Sue me.”

            Derek grins at the embarrassment written all over Stiles face, glancing down at the shirt again and vainly wishing there was a mirror in here. 

            _Huh. Really?_

“Maybe we shouldn’t bother washing the other one after all?”

            “Yeah, let’s add eye candy to the growing list of shit I owe you for.”

            “You don’t owe me anything; I don’t mind.”

            “Why not?”

            “What?” Derek asks, a little confused.

            “Why don’t you mind?” Stiles repeats.  “Why are you even here?”

            “I just—I wanna help,” Derek replies.

            “I know, and I’m not saying that I don’t want you here ‘cause it’s been awesome to have you around. I just—is it me or my dad or—why do you give a shit?”

            Derek shrugs.  “I dunno.”

            “Come on, dude. I spilled my guts and cried on your shoulder for like half an hour.  You can give me one straight answer.”

            “You—”  Derek turns back to opening the packaging on the lasagna like it’s the most riveting damn task in the world because he can’t look Stiles in the face as he admits, “you got under my skin,” he continues.  “I don’t know, just—something about you, and then when I found out you were in trouble, I just—I wanted to help.”

            He turns to gauge Stiles’ reaction, and he sees the smile spreading across Stiles’ face at the words. 

            “So it’s not—it’s not like ‘cause my Dad’s like your mentor dude or something?”

            “I respect the hell out of your Dad as a sheriff,” Derek replies. “But I’m not doing this for him.”

            Stiles’ smile widens into a full on grin.

“Go out with me,” he blurts.

Judging by the way his eyes bug out of his face as he realizes what he just suggested, Derek’s guessing his mouth didn’t consult his brain before that offer was made. It takes every bit of control Derek’s got not to laugh out loud as Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and waves his good hand around in an erasing motion.

 “Shit—I didn’t—I mean I—fuck,” he mutters. “I’m an idiot,” he asserts, words stifled against the palm of his hand as he covers his face in humiliation.

            It’s Derek’s turn to smile as Stiles drowns in obvious mortification.

            “Okay.”

            “Okay, I’m an idiot?”

            “Okay, we’ll go out,” Derek says.  “If you really want, and, ya know, when you feel up to it or whatever.”

            “I don’t want to fuck up this whole friendship thing we’ve got going on,” Stiles says. 

            “It won’t,” Derek assures with more confidence than he feels.

            “It could.”

            “So you’re retracting the offer?”

            “I didn’t say that.  I just—you really don’t think it’ll fuck things up?”

            “No.”

            _At least I hope not._

“It’s not like I’m going to be going on dates anytime soon anyway,” Stiles says.  “Dad barely lets me out on the porch much less out of the house, so we’ll just—just say eventually?”

            “Sure.  Whenever you want,” Derek agrees with a nod; Stiles smiles at that. 

            _Please let whatever the fuck this is go well. Please, please, please?_

 

**********************************************************

 

            “Well, someone clearly had a good day,” Mom says when he walks in. 

            “Yeah,” Derek agrees.

            “Stiles doing well?”

            “He finally gave a statement,” Derek says, “about what Matt did to him and everything.”

            “Good for him.  That’s a big step.”

            “Yeah.”

            “But that’s not what’s got you grinning like the Cheshire cat.”

            “Stiles—uh—Stiles kinda asked me out.”

            “Out on a date?”

            “No, out on a hike,” Derek replies with a roll of his eyes.

            “And I’m guessing you agreed?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Whoa, what’s the frown about?  You don’t want to?”

            “No, I do—I like really, really do—I just—What if it’s just ‘cause I’m there, ya know? Like he thinks he likes me ‘cause I’ve been helping.”

            “You think he’s gone Nightingale Syndrome on you?”

            “I dunno. Maybe?”

            “Well, it’s a possibility,” she agrees, “but weren’t you complaining just last week that Cindy Buckner wouldn’t stop asking you out?”

            “Yeah.”

            “And that guy—Andy something or other—the week before that?”

            “Yeah, but—”

            “I’m sure Stiles is incredibly grateful you’ve been there for him,” Mom goes on, “but I doubt that’s the only reason he wants to date you.”

            “You have to say that. You’re my Mom.”

            “So I shouldn’t break out the “you’re a special snowflake” speech?”

            “Could you be serious for five seconds?”

            She grins knowingly.

“You really like him, don’t you?” she wonders, but it’s more a statement than a question.

“Shut up.”

“Honey, don’t worry.  I’m sure you two will have a great time when Stiles feels up to going out.”

“What if—what if I like—make it worse?”

“Make what worse?”

“He said Matt—some of the stuff he did to Stiles it—I just—what if he shouldn’t date yet? What if it like pushes him into something—”

“Take your cues from him,” his mother suggests.  “Maybe you’re right and he does need a little time, _but_ maybe he’s excited to date someone he knows will make his life _better_ instead of worse.”

“You think?”  
            “I really do, sweetheart.”

“Mom, I’m eighteen years old. Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“I quit writing it on notes in your lunch,” she replies.  “That’s as close as you’re going to get.”

Derek rolls his eyes.  “I mean it.”

“One thing,” she says, face going serious again.

“What?”

“I know that Stiles has been through a horrible ordeal.”

_Understatement._

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve someone who’ll take care of you too,” she points out.  “A one-sided relationship isn’t going to work for either of you.  There’s got to be a give and a take on both sides.’

“It’s one date, not a marriage proposal.”

“I know, just—don’t get so caught up in looking out for him that you don’t look out for yourself too.”

“I won’t.”

_I’ll leave him notes and he’ll burn me mixed tapes.  I’ll pick where we get dinner and he can pick the movie.  We already do it.  I really think it’ll work._

_I really fucking hope it works._

_I just hope I’m not getting ahead of myself._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, this is the part where I'm going to throw out the disclaimer/reminder that this fic is self-serving and as such some things, like Stiles' recovery and the court proceedings/timeline, are plot-serving, not an attempt to be super realistic :)


	13. Chapter 13 - Stiles

            “You do remember this date is with Derek, right?” Dad teases from the doorway.  “The guy’s seen you in a hospital gown with a catheter in your—”

            “Jesus Christ, Dad, you’re not helping.”

            “I’m just saying you don’t have to impress the guy.  No need to be nervous.”

            “The insanely attractive, protective, intelligent, sensitive guy of my fucking dreams actually agreed to go on a date with me and—and if I fuck this up—”

            “Stiles,” Dad says, laying hands gently on his shoulders.  “Calm down.  You’re both going to have a great time. No one is going to fuck anything up—or do any fucking of any kind for that matter—and it’ll be fine.   It’s just a first date.”

            “Just a first date? _Just a first date?!_ It’s a date with _Derek!_ Derek, Dad! It’s not—”

            The sound of the doorbell cuts off his sentence.

            “Shit, that’s him. I—uh—I,” he glances in the mirror at the polo shirt and dark jeans he’s wearing.  “I look okay, right? Do I look like I tried too hard? Or—or maybe I should’ve worn the button up.”

            “You look fine, son.”

            “I don’t want to look _fine_!I want to look _good_.  I’d say ‘great’ but let’s be honest here the scrawny kid with the scarred up face and the—”

            “Hey,” Dad interrupts sharply.  “You look like the handsome, _brave_ guy who survived hell from a psychopath,” he says somberly.  “You deserve Derek just as much as he deserves you.”

            _Yeah, right._

“Thanks, Dad.”

            “Deep breath, kiddo. It’s Derek.  You’re gonna have a great time with him; you always do.”

            _Yeah, but it’s different._

Three knocks on the door remind him Derek’s still outside.

            _Shit. I hope he can’t hear any of this. Oh, God, what if he can hear this? Dammit why the hell can’t I ever fucking be quiet?_

            “Don’t keep him waiting,” Dad says.  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

            “Oh my _God,_ Dad. Can you not?”  
            His father chuckles as Stiles heads to the door, trying to concentrate on remembering how to breathe and not tripping over his own shoelaces.

 

***********************************************************

 

            It doesn’t take them long to get past the initial awkwardness.  By the time they get to the restaurant they’re excitedly discussing Arcade Fire’s newest album as though this were any other day they’ve chilled together.  The waitress who comes to get their drink order is a woman named Margaret who says she knows Stiles’ father.  He worries for just a minute that things are about to get awkward until she says: 

            “I know things’ve been rough for you and your dad lately. I sure am glad to see you out and about, Stiles.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Remind me and I’ll bag him up a piece of pie for you to take home,” she offers.  “Nothing that’ll spoil,” she promises, “so you boys can take your time getting home.”

            She winks at Derek as she turns to walk away, and Derek blushes scarlet.  


            “Well that was sufficiently embarrassing,” Stiles mutters.

            “No big deal,” Derek replies.  “At least she’s nice.”

            “Yeah.”

            Surprisingly, even with Dad going to rehab, taking off time from work, and the trial with Matt coming up in just a couple weeks, the scandal didn’t turn into the shit storm Stiles had feared.  In fact, Dad’s gotten a lot of support from the department and friends of the family.  It doesn’t hurt that he was able to do out-patient counseling and the vacation and step down at work look like they have as much to do with Stiles’ health as his own alcohol issues.  Stiles knows he won’t be able to run for sheriff again without someone on the opposition digging up every dirty detail of the ordeal, but as long as he keeps his place as Deputy Stilinski, it seems most of the town is willing to leave well enough alone.  Stiles just hopes that doesn’t change if the videos Matt took of Dad get shown at the trial; the lawyer says it’s a possibility.

            “You okay?” Derek asks.

            “Yeah, sorry, just—zoned out for a minute,” Stiles replies with a grin.  “So what’s good here? I’ve only been once like a zillion years ago.”

 

***************************************

 

            “So yeah, Ms. Morrell says if I go to summer school I should be able to catch up enough to graduate on time,” Stiles tells Derek. 

            “That’s awesome!”

            “You boys enjoy,” Margaret says, interrupting to set their plates down in front of them. 

            “Thanks,” they reply in unison, both blushing and looking away quickly as she grins at them.  


            Stiles reaches automatically for his silverware with his right hand, remembering too late that it can’t grip it anymore.  He can’t help staring just a moment at his ruined hand, cursing Matt mentally for the millionth time.  The shattered bones and wrecked tendons may have healed for the most part, but Stiles’ hand will never regain full strength.

            “Now I just gotta get used to this whole left-handed thing before June,” he says, forcing a smile past the melancholy of the reminder and gripping his fork determinedly with his left hand.   


            “You—uh—I could—ya know, help you,” Derek offers.  “If you want.”

            “I can do it,” Stiles asserts, stabbing at the nearest meatball.

As if planned, it shoots out from under Stiles fork, flying across the table to splat against Derek’s charcoal shirt, leaving behind an ugly red splat.  Derek stares down at it, openmouthed as Stiles wishes to melt into the floor.  


“Shit, dude, I’m sorry I—”

            Derek cuts off the apology with a burst of laughter, full and deep, and Stiles can’t help joining in despite his mortification.  A few of the other patrons turn to look questioningly at them, and they stifle the outburst after a moment or two.  Derek dabs at the stain with a napkin, but it really only makes it worse.  


            “I think it might be a lost cause, dude.”

            “Eh, I never liked this shirt much anyway. No worries.”

            “Maybe—um—maybe you should—like cut them in half?” Stiles admits embarrassedly.  “If you don’t—”

            “Sure,” Derek replies helpfully, sliding the plate toward him slightly so he can employ both his knife and fork to bisect each meatball. 

            _Great.  What am I? A four-year-old? Can’t even eat spaghetti without—_

“You’re adorable when you pout, you know that?” Derek informs him.

            “Shut up. I’m not pouting.”

            “Of course you’re not,” Derek agrees, rolling his eyes.  “You _never_ pout.  What was I thinking?”

            “Asshole,” Stiles mutters.

            “Asshole you’re on a date with,” Derek reminds.  “I can’t be too bad.”

            “No,” Stiles agrees, returning Derek’s smile reluctantly. 

            They finish the meal without much more pause, leaving with the pie for the sheriff and another awkward wink from Margaret.  Derek pays, and so as they walk out to the car Stiles offers, “So next one’s on me.”

            “Next one?”

            “Well, yeah—I mean—if you—if you want there to be a next one.”  


            “Of course I want there to be, you moron,” Derek replies.  “Is that a hint this one’s done or—”

            “Not unless you want it to be.”

            “I thought we could—I dunno—drive up to the lookout or something? If you wanted? Or we could just catch the late show at the movie theatre?”

            “The lookout sounds good,” Stiles agrees.  “I haven’t been up there in forever.”

            “Awesome,” Derek says.  “As—uh—artistic as the stain may be,” he says looking down at his shirt.  “I think I’m gonna ditch the shirt for the moment.”

            Stiles recognizes the black undershirt and its sinfully good fit instantly. He can’t hold back a laugh or stop the admiring glance at the attire.

            “I wore it for luck, okay?” Derek expounds bashfully.  “Shut up.”

            “No complaints here,” Stiles replies.  “I owe that shirt a lot.”

  _Just don’t hold it against me if I don’t bother trying to hide the general awe anymore. Do you have any idea the effect you have on me? Jeez…_

           

           

*************************************************************

 

            Stiles is honestly about to drift off to sleep.  It’s surprisingly comfortable reclining on the hood of the Camaro with the comfortable weight of Derek’s arm over his shoulders.  It’s been a long day, no matter how much Stiles may insist he’s almost back to his usual self.    The stars glow brilliantly, twinkling so much brighter from this vantage point than when surrounded by the lights of the town, but Derek’s not looking at the sky; his eyes are on Stiles.

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” Derek replies, eyes darting away as he’s caught. 

            It’s hard to tell in the moonlight, but Stiles wonders if Derek’s blushing scarlet again.  Then he remembers the side of his face Derek can see is the one marred by the angry pink flesh that’s healed into a scar only expensive plastic surgery could fix.  Dad says the jagged line that runs nearly all the way from Stiles’ chin to his temple makes him look tough, but to Stiles it’s just an outward sign of just how scarred up he is on the inside.  He’s wondered before if Derek would mind all the traces of Matt permanently sealed on Stiles’ body, but this is the first moment he’s been truly afraid Derek’s bothered.[

            Derek remains quiet, and Stiles assumes the moment has passed; he hopes Derek’s mind moved to other things if he was fixating on the old wound.  Stiles is so caught up in trying to figure out the best way to reassure Derek the scars will fade that he doesn’t really register that Derek’s moving until his warm, soft lips brush against Stiles’ cheek for the briefest of moments.  Stiles turns to gape, openmouthed and speechless.  Derek smiles shyly, looking away.

            “Was that—okay? I mean I know it’s—it’s cheesy or whatever, but I didn’t want to just like plant one on you, ya know? Not after—everything—and asking permission just seemed weird and—”

            Stiles silences the unspeakably adorable, unsure rambling by surging forward to bring his lips to Derek’s.  He feels Derek’s grin, and takes it as a sign of encouragement, slipping his tongue into Derek’s mouth.  Derek’s hands come up to run through Stiles’ hair, but he doesn’t yank the way Matt would, just holds on to Stiles like he doesn’t want them to part—and they don’t, for a while anyway.  When Derek does pull away at last, Stiles aches to keep going, but doesn’t want to push too far too soon.

            “If you’re late, your Dad’ll never let me take you out again,” Derek reminds. 

            “Yeah, he would.  You’re like his favorite intern ever.”

            “I think only son trumps favorite intern.”

            Stiles sighs heavily in surrender; Derek’s right.

            “Fine.”

            Once they’re home, Derek walks Stiles to the door, fingers threaded through Stiles’ again.   


            “I had a really great time tonight,” Derek says.

            “Me too.”

            “So we should—we should do this again, right?”

            “Tuesday?” Stiles suggests.

            “Yeah,” Derek agrees with a pleased smile at Stiles’ obvious enthusiasm.

            “Awesome.”

            “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Derek says, pulling their hands up to kiss the back of Stiles’ quickly before he lets go; Stiles wonders amusedly if Derek doesn’t quite yet have the courage to kiss a cop’s son on the front porch.

 

 

************************************************

 

            “Scott?” Stiles says, thoroughly surprised when he answers the door.

            Scott came to visit once while he was in the hospital.  He dropped by the house a week later to bring a casserole Ms. McCall sent.  Other that that, Stiles has barely seen or heard from him, not that he expected much more really.  There’s no reason he’d expect to find Scott at his door holding a bag of what Stiles hopes is burgers and curly fries from their favorite fast food joint.

            “Hey, dude,” Scott says.  “I—uh—I know it’s been a while and—and I’m a shitty friend, okay?”  
            “Scott—”

            “But the trial’s next week or whatever, and I just—I thought I’d come by? Hang out maybe? If—if you want?”

            _Is Allison busy? Or did your conscience just outweigh your libido today?_

            “Yeah, sure,” Stiles replies with a shrug.

            “I got food for us,” Scott says as he follows Stiles in the house.  “We could—uh—watch Star Wars or something?”

            “You hate Star Wars.”

            “Yeah, but you don’t.”

            “Scott, what the hell are you doing here?”

            “Hanging out?”

            “You know what I’m asking,” Stiles says irritably.  “ _Why_ are you here?”

            “I can leave.”

            “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to answer the question.”

            Scott looks like a kicked puppy, brown eyes watering until he looks away from Stiles, free hand coming up to rub nervously at the back of his neck.  He opens and closes his mouth several times before he finally finds words for what he wants to say.

            “Because I should’ve been there, but I wasn’t,” he says finally.  “It’s way too little, way too late, I know that.  I didn’t even know how to talk to you after everything came out about the—the abuse and—fuck, Stiles, how was I supposed to even look at you? Laying up there in the hospital ‘cause he nearly fucking killed you and I didn’t even notice anything was wrong? I mean, Derek Hale had to come out of nowhere to be your bud because I was so busy sucking face with Allison I didn’t even—”

            “Scott, stop,” Stiles interrupts, even though this is the kind of apology he’s been waiting for since the truth about Matt came out.  “It’s not your fault.”

            “Yeah, well, I damn sure didn’t help things. I totally get if you hate me, but I kinda hope maybe you don’t? I just—I fucked up, dude, and I wasn’t there, and I’m sorry.”

            “And this apology comes with curly fries and an offer to watch Star Wars,” Stiles says.  “Clearly you know your target.”

            “It’s a start right?”

            “It’s not your fault, dude.  I wasn’t exactly pestering you to hang out all the time.”

            “Yeah but, but I should’ve noticed that it was Matt and not you calling shots on that.  I just—I thought that it was like me and Allison, ya know? I thought—I mean not that I don’t like hanging with you, but I like being with her too, and I thought Matt was the same.  I didn’t—you were stoked when you first started dating him, dude.  I just failed at life and didn’t see it when it started sucking.  I should’ve—”

“I was _trying_ to hide it, Scott,” Stiles reminds.  “Stop beating yourself up about it.  It’s done.”

“I’m gonna make it up to you,” Scott swears. 

“You don’t have to,” Stiles replies, though he’d honestly be pissed if Scott didn’t at least try.  “ _But_ you are off to a good start,” he concedes, grabbing the bag of food from Scott and leading the way to the den.

            The doorbell rings fifteen minutes into Empire Strikes Back, and Stiles goes to answer since Scott’s actually paying attention to the movie for once.  Derek smiles when the door swings open, pulling him out onto the porch and stealing a kiss in greeting.  


            “Is Scott here?” he asks with a glance to the bike on the porch.  “I didn’t know he was coming over.”

            “We’re just watching a movie,” Stiles replies quickly, pulling away to take a step back. “I mean—just hanging out, ya know? It’s just Scott, we’re not—”  


            “Whoa, Stiles, it’s fine,” Derek interrupts, and Stiles doesn’t realize how worked up he is until Derek moves to touch him again, and he flinches away.

            Derek takes a step back, hands up and non-threatening.  

            “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I—”

            “No, it’s fine; I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You’re not him; you don’t give a shit who I hang out with, right? I mean—even if you did I—I know you’re not going to—I just—I dunno my nerves and the trial’s coming up and _fuck._ ”

            “Hey, come here,” Derek says, and Stiles relaxes into the embrace.  “It’s okay. You’re stressed, but it’ll be over before you know it. Matt’ll stay behind bars where he belongs.”

            “I fucking hope so.”

            _I’m moving to Canada if he gets off._

“And, not that you need my permission, but, for the record, yes you can hang out with whoever you want,” Derek adds, letting go so he can look Stiles in the face, “But if you could save the kisses for me, that’d be nice,” he teases with a smile, leaning down for quick one.

            “Deal,” Stiles agrees.  “Come on,” he beckons. “We’re on Empire Strikes Back.”

           

 

************************************************

 

 

They’ve only been dating for two months, but Stiles sometimes feels as though he’s been with Derek forever.  Maybe it’s because Matt was his only other boyfriend, but he swears life with Derek is damn near perfect.  They bicker sometimes—which movie, which radio station, pizza or Chinese, ice cream or coffee—but Stiles can’t believe how easy it is to just _be._ There’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when he walks into the courtroom on Tuesday morning. 

            He glances over to where Matt sits, and immediately sees what a mistake that was.  The fury burning in his eyes at the sight of Derek and Stiles sends a jolt of fear through Stiles.  In attempt to smother the desire to bolt from the room, he clings to Derek’s hand so tight he’s probably cutting off circulation, but he can’t bring himself to let go.  Dad’s hand comes to rest on Stiles’ shoulder.

            “You’re okay, kiddo,” he reminds quietly. 

            _For how long? How long until I’m trembling on the stand while he stares at me? How long before the tears of frustration and fear and hate spill over? How long before I lose my shit in front of all these fucking people because I let Matt take me apart slowly for seven months and couldn’t get away?_

But he has to stay.  He’s not going to let Matt win.  Stiles is going to watch as the guy who made his life hell for months and left him scarred in more ways than one is made to answer for what he did.

            _He’s not getting away with this, and I’m getting some closure.  He can’t hurt me anymore._

*******************************************************

 

            “Dad? What’re you doing up? It’s two in the—” Stiles falls silent at the sight of the all too familiar bottle and glass on the table.

            “Stiles, I—I didn’t think you were still up,” Dad says, guilt all over his face as he looks down at the glass, eyes darting like he’s looking for a way to hide his transgression.

            “Clearly,” Stiles replies, glaring at the half-full glass.

            “Look, I know—I know I shouldn’t, but it’s—it’s been a rough day. It’s just one drink.”

            “A third of the bottle is gone,” he counters unforgivingly.  “That all tonight or you been drinking again for a while?”

            “Stiles, it’s—okay it’s the second drink tonight and maybe I’ve had a couple others—I’m not going to let it get out of hand again, I promise you.”

            It’s then that Stiles realizes just how completely his life has changed in the past months.  He knows Dad is drinking because he’s stressed, and he’s stressed because of the trial.  But none of that is Stiles’ fault.  It’s Matt’s fault the trial is happening, and it’s Dad’s choice to handle the stress this way.

             _You can only accept responsibility for the choices you make directly,_ his counselor’s voice reminds from weeks ago.   _You can’t control the choices that others will make, only how you react to them_ _._

_Okay, so Dad’s backsliding a little.  How do I handle it? It’s not so bad he’s stumbling around, but it’s not good either.  Let him slide or call him out? What do I do?_

“You won’t  _mean_  to let it get out of hand,” Stiles corrects finally.  “You weren’t trying to lose control last time, Dad.  It was—it was a drink because you missed her, and then—then a drink because you had so much work to catch up on—and then a drink because if you ‘wanted to have a good stiff drink after work it was your own damn business’—but, it—it always went downhill.   “

“You know, son, I’m not sure I like your tone. I’m still your—”

“I watched you spiral once!” Stiles shouts over the attempted interruption, and the outburst seems to startle Dad to silence.  “But I will not do it twice!”

            “What exactly are you saying to me?”

            “Dad, I  _can’t_ do it twice,” Stiles answers, voice breaking with the fear driving the ultimatum. 

            _I can’t watch what we’ve built back go to shit. I can’t watch you slip away a little at a time again.  It’s like watching you die slowly, and I can’t watch it happen again._

“I can’t watch you drown the world out—drown  _me_ out.  I can’t.  I’m sorry,” Stiles reiterates.

            “Stiles—”

            “I’m going to Derek’s.” 

            “It’s the middle of the night.”

            “He won’t mind.”

            “Don’t be overdramatic.”

            “Don’t you _dare_ act like I’m overreacting,” Stiles threatens angrily as the fear and disappointment transitions to righteous indignation.  “I’m not fucking around with you, Dad.  I’m not.  I love you to death.  You know I do, but I can’t—I won’t watch you fall off the bandwagon.”

            He storms toward the door, grabbing his keys from the hook on the wall.  Dad follows, but as he opens his mouth to speak Stiles talks over him.

“You can drink, or you can have a son.  You can’t have both. Sleep on it; pick one; and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

            “Stiles!” Dad shouts after him as he bolts out the door, determined to get to the Jeep before he breaks down completely.  “Stiles, wait! I’m sorry! I—”

            He doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence, cranking the radio as he pulls off.  He dials Derek’s number, driving more slowly now as the tears come in earnest.

            “Stiles? Everything okay?”

            “I need to crash at your house, okay? Will your mom be pissed?”

            “No, dude, you’re welcome over here anytime. You know that.  What happened? What’s wrong? Do I need to come get you?”

            “I’m fine. I’m on the way already.  I just—I had to get out of the house.”

            “What the hell happened?”

            “Dad’s drinking again.”

            “What? Just tonight? How long? How bad?”

            “I don’t know—I just—I can’t do it again, Derek. I can’t.  I didn’t know what to say so I just—I told him he had to pick me or the alcohol, and I didn’t—I didn’t mean it.  I couldn’t leave him on his own, I just—if he quit for me before he’ll—he’ll stop, right?”

            “Yeah, of course. He’ll get straightened out,” Derek assures.  “It’s just been a rough week on him.”

            “He’s going to be pissed at me.”

            “You did the right thing.  He shouldn’t be.  I bet it’ll be fine.  You can talk to him tomorrow.”

            “Fuck, Derek, I just—I yelled at him and ran out.  What if—what if something happens before tomorrow?  I should go back. I should apologize. I can’t just—he’s my dad.”

            “And he needs some tough love sometimes,” Derek says.  “You’ve taken care of him for six years, Stiles.  He knows you love him.  You have to hold him accountable.  It’s what all the counselors said, remember?”

            “Yeah, just— _goddammit._ How could he be so stupid? _”_

“You shouldn’t be driving,” Derek says.  “Pull over. Let me come get you.”  


            “No, I’m almost there. I’m okay.  I’ll see you in a minute.”

 

**********************************************************

 

            Derek meets him at the door and leads the way to the kitchen.  There’s milk and cookies set out already.

            “I gave Mom a heads up you were coming,” he says; he’s not coming across as cheerfully nonchalant as he’s clearly trying to, but Stiles appreciate the effort.  “She offered brownies, but I figured we could make due.”

            “I’m not really hungry. I kinda just want to crash.  It’s been a long fucking day.”

            “Yeah, of course,” Derek agrees, reaching for the milk to put it back in the fridge as Stiles heads up the stairs to Derek’s room. 

He plops down on the bed, registering for the first time that he’s only got on pajama bottoms.  He traces the lines of his scars, a nervous habit he hasn’t kicked yet, wishing they could go away like Matt once the sentence is dolled out tomorrow.  He doesn’t really acknowledge Derek’s presence until his hand covers Stiles, pulling his fingers away from the scars as his lips caress them instead, tracing the lines with tender kisses. 

“They’re going to fade some more,” Stiles tells him.  “The doctors say if I put that vitamin E stuff on every day then they won’t be so noticeable, some might even go away, so you won’t have to look at the fucked up mess Matt left with—” 

“Hey,” Derek interrupts.  “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he says earnestly, eyes meeting Stiles’.  “Scars, moles, and all,” he continues, coming up to kiss at the marks dotting Stiles face.

“Derek, you don’t have to—”

“You’re a survivor,” Derek says.  “You know that? That’s what these scars mean.  They’re not Matt’s marks; they’re a sign to the whole fucking world of just how strong you can be.  You’ve been so great in court; you’re so fucking brave and badass, but you can still care so much about your dad and sacrifice so much of yourself for other people and—,” he hesitates for just a moment, smiling nervously before he continues, “and I fucking love you, Stiles, _everything_ about you.”

“What?” Stiles asks, sure that he must have hallucinated half that confession because he’s scarred and fucked in the head and gawky and too hyper and—

“I love you,” Derek repeats a little shyly, dissolving Stiles’ doubt for the moment. 

Stiles’ words stick to the back of his throat, so instead of a verbal reply he surges in for a deep kiss, pulling at the hem of Derek’s shirt and helping him strip it off. He runs his hands over every inch of Derek he can reach, pulling him in closer, relishing the heat of their bodies in contact.  But it’s not enough, Stiles _aches_ for more, to feel as close as he can to Derek, to let Derek drown out all the other bullshit going on in the world even if just for a moment.

 So when Derek’s mouth leaves Stiles’ to trail down his neck and collarbone, seemingly intent on kissing his way around all Stiles’ scars again, Stiles reaches to slide Derek’s shorts down, and says breathlessly.

“Let’s—” Stiles suggests, question cut off by a moan as Derek starts to tease at his nipples.  “Let’s—you wanna—fuck me?” Stiles says, whining by the end of it because every particle of him is on fire with overwhelming want. 

“Nuh-uh,” Derek replies. Stiles’ mood plummets for just a moment until Derek counters, “You fuck me.”

Stiles freezes, hand still on Derek’s hardening cock, mouth gaping open.

_You’re Derek Hale.  You’re the big, strong jock.  You’re—you’re—why would you let me fuck you?_

“Sorry,” Derek says quickly.  “Sorry, I—we can—whatever you wanna do. I just thought—”

“No, it’s—sorry—I just—I’ve never topped before,” Stiles admits bashfully. 

Derek grins then, like Stiles is the most precious thing in the world, and Stiles would hate the look if Derek wasn’t so unfairly gorgeous with a smile on his face.  Derek gets up from the bed and pulls lube and a condom from the bottom drawer of his dresser.  A delicious tingle of anticipation runs through Stiles as Derek settles back on the bed with him.  

Stiles puts ample lube on his fingers, ignoring the memory of the night Matt decides spit would “do fine really.”  _Don’t keep wasting money on the lube. It makes a mess anyway.  You’ll like the extra friction. You’ll see._ It’s all Stiles can do not to shudder at the memory.  


“Let me know if it’s—I don’t—I don’t want it to hurt you,” Stiles says quietly, biting at his lip nervously, wondering if he shouldn’t just let Derek lead things.

“I will,” Derek says, “but I trust you, you know that?”

Stiles smiles at the assertion, leaning down to kiss Derek as he circles his hole slowly with his fingers before sliding one in.  Derek tenses just a moment before he relaxes with a grin as Stiles slowly continues his work with a gentleness Matt showed only in the beginning. 

_Stop. I’ve got to stop comparing sex with Derek to sex with Matt. It’s not a competition. It’s a whole different ballgame.  And it’s going to be so much better with him.  I can make it better, and he’ll make it better and forget Matt ever existed, just for a little while.  Me and Derek.  That’s all that matters right now.  I’m with Derek.  I love Derek._

_And Derek loves me._

“I’m all for taking it slow,” Derek gasps out between moans he’s muffling into his fist.  “But you’re driving me crazy.”

“I always drive you crazy,” Stiles reminds with a teasing grin.

“Come on, Stiles, please. I’m ready. I’m _so_ fucking ready, just—”

The sentence tapers off into a whine as Stiles removes his fingers, but quiets as Derek’s breath hitches when he pushes just the head of his cock in.

“Okay?”

“God, yeah, just keep going.”

Stiles inches in slowly, struggling against the urge to thrust into the tight, wet heat of Derek.  _God_ it feels—

“So good,” Stiles mutters, mouth running away with him.  “Fuck—that’s—you’re—oh my _God_.”

Derek chuckles just a little, and Stiles rolls his eyes but remembers there’re two people trying to get off on this. 

_Little control, Stilinski.   Get your head in the game._

  He starts up a gentle rhythm, trying to find the right angle for Derek.

“ _Fuck_ yes, just like that,” Derek groans, and Stiles can’t help smiling triumphantly, overwhelmed with the euphoria of watching Derek come apart with pleasure beneath him. 

Stiles picks up the pace gradually, until—

“I’m close. Derek, I’m gonna—”

“Keep going; keep going,” Derek urges.  “I’m almost...”

Stiles honestly isn’t sure which of them comes first; he just buries the sound of it in Derek’s shoulder, coming harder than he ever has in his life and feeling Derek clench around him intensifies the ecstasy even more. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek grunts in agreement.  “And—and I love you too by the way—and not just for your perfect ass.”

Derek chuckles. 

“Good to know.” 

 

************************************************

 

            The dread builds as Stiles walks back up the front walk toward the door.  He wonders what awaits him inside:  Dad sober and apologetic? Or Dad drunk or hung over, and probably pissed?

            _Please have picked me. Please just be sober. Please have picked me._

He wants to believe Dad did, but the hope dies as he takes in the sight of two empty bottles of whiskey on the table.

            _Holy shit, Dad. No. Tell me you didn’t._

“Stiles?” Dad calls blearily from the den.

            Stiles almost bolts from the house, but he doesn’t. 

            “Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

            Dad’s there in the next instant, holding onto Stiles like he’ll never let go.  He doesn’t smell like liquor, doesn’t waver where he stands.

            “You poured it out?” Stiles wonders, realizing now the other explanation for the empty bottles.

            “That was all I had, kiddo.  It’s gone.”

            “Good.”

            Dad pulls out of the hug, keeping one hand on his son’s shoulder as he meets Stiles’ gaze with sad puppy eyes that could rival even Scott’s. 

            “I let you down.”

            Stiles almost denies it; he almost lies and says it’s okay.  But lying won’t help either of them.

            “Just—don’t do it again?”

            “Never another drop in this house, I promise you,” Dad agrees earnestly. 

            “Good.”

            “And you know—you know I’d do anything for you.  Telling me to pick, son, you don’t—you never have to wonder what the answer to options like that are.  You come before everything.”

            Stiles smiles as Dad pulls him in for another hug and more of the residual tension leaves him. When he pulls away Stiles notices the dark circles under Dad’s eyes.

            “Did you even sleep?”

            “Nothing a little coffee can’t cure,” he replies, dodging a direct answer.  “What d’you want for breakfast? We’ve still got an hour before we need to be at the courthouse.”

            Stiles’ mood falls instantly at the reminder.  Dad must notice Stiles’ face falling because he says, “Stiles, he’s been found guilty; it’s just the sentencing.”

            “What if it’s not much? What if—”

            “It’ll be fine; you’ll see. Come on. I’ll make French toast. How’s that sound?”

 

*************************************************

 

            Stiles hums along with the radio, watching out the window as they drive home from the sentencing.  Matt’s going away for a long, long time.  He was given the maximum sentence for his lengthy list of transgressions, and Stiles felt so weightless at hearing the sentence read out that he had to close his eyes and grit his teeth to keep the tears of relief in check as they led Matt away.  He can see the relief in Dad and Derek too.

            They stop by the store on the way home, and Dad buys steaks and veggies for the grill. Derek’s mom comes over, and so do the McCalls.  They’re all giddy with excitement, as though finally they can _really_ put this all in the past.  Stiles is stuffed full of delicious food and heading to the kitchen for a refill on his Dr. Pepper when the serenity shatters.

            “What the hell do you mean ‘he escaped’?” Dad’s voice thunders through the house.  “He’s a goddamn teenager! How hard can it be to keep an eye on him!  You knew he was a flight risk! Who was the transporting officer? I will make sure his sorry ass never works another day in law enforcement so help me God, you—”

            “Mom, turn on the TV,” Scott’s voice urges from the den.  “Find the news.”

Stiles hears the familiar “breaking news story” announcement and assumes Ms. McCall acted as requested.  He takes two steps toward the den to join them, praying he’s wrong about what the story involves, and then he stops dead in his tracks as the announcer speaks.

            “At approximately 6:30pm, the convict Matt Daehler escaped custody while in transport to the…”

            _Escaped custody._

_He escaped custody._

_He escaped. He’s out.  He’s—he’s—_

           “…we have reason to believe Daehler may have remained in this area even after his escape.  It is believed Daehler is unarmed but extremely violent.  If you have any information on the possible whereabouts of this individual…”

Stiles vaguely registers the sound as his glass slips from his grip and shatters on the floor.  He stares down at it, heart pounding in his ears as he tries to remember how to make his arms move, how to speak, how to breathe.  Dad rushes at him, too fast but then suddenly the world’s moving at a snail’s pace; he notices the slow flow of the spilled soda as it moves down the crevices in the tiles floor.  The world kicks back up to full speed.  They’re all coming in now, talking and worrying but the words don’t make sense, just echo, weirdly distorted.  He feels like he’s going to be sick.  His lungs burn with the need for air as he tries and fails to gain enough oxygen with the shallow breaths he can manage.  His knees give way, but Derek’s there, catching him before he hits the floor.  Leading him to the couch, as Ms. McCall urges him to just breathe and Dad promises the panic will pass soon.  


            But it won’t.

            Even if the attack stops, the panic will stay.

            _Matt’s out._

_He’s not going to let this go._

_He’s going to kill me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles and dances off into the night*
> 
> sorry I'm not sorry? though some of you had already guessed this was coming :) 
> 
> thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14 - Derek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allow me to draw your attention to the big bold letter up there that say "Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings"
> 
> No matter what happens, I hope you keep reading :)

            Derek pulls into the Stilinski drive after work.  Ever since Matt escaped a week ago, Derek spends the night when the sheriff has a shift, though the department has a deputy in the drive.  Nothing seems out of place until he rings the doorbell and hears no answering sounds from inside.  He knocks at the door, trying to fight the panic rising in his chest.  When no one answers, he can’t stop himself from sprinting around to the back of the house.

            “Stiles?! Mr. Stilinski?!”

            He freezes for just a moment at the sight of the back door busted in.  In the next instant he grabs the rake leaning against the house and charging into the house blindly, losing his mind in terror.

            “Stiles!? Mr. Stilinski?!”

            He rounds the corner into the kitchen to find Mr. Stilinski on the kitchen floor with blood trickling from a huge gash in his temple and pooling on the tile beneath his head.  Derek drops to his knees checking for a pulse, grateful beyond words to find the weak throbbing of life still in the sheriff’s veins.  He gets back to his feet, searching all the more frantically for Stiles, increasingly hysterical when room after room shows only more signs of a fight.  He ends his search in Stiles’ room, knees buckling at the sight of the blood smeared on the carpet, one mark the imprint of a face where it fell—or was shoved?—into the carpet.

            “No, no, no, this can’t be happening.  This can’t be happening.”

            “Stiles?!” he calls again, forcing himself to get back to his feet.

            _I just need to check again.  Maybe he’s hiding somewhere. Maybe he’s here. Maybe…maybe…_

_He can’t be gone._

_Matt can’t have him._

_We promised he was safe._

_Oh God, he’s gone._

_No, no, no, no, no._

 

*********************************************************

 

            Derek’s exhausted, _so_ fucking exhausted, but he made Stiles a promise.   He swore Matt would never lay a hand on him again, and he failed that promise.  The blood in Stiles room belonged to both Matt and Stiles, confirming the worst fears that it was he who took Stiles.  They’ve looked everywhere for them.  They’ve tracked Stiles’ phone.  They’ve issued news bulletins.  The hotline rings off the hook with unhelpful false leads.  It’s anyone’s guess whether Derek or the Sheriff snaps first.

            Derek’s starting to think it’s going to be him.

            _I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m so sorry.  I said I’d keep you safe, and I didn’t.  I’m so sorry.  I’ll get you back.  We’ll bring you home.  Just hold on.  Please just be okay._

“Go home, Derek,” Deputy Schrader says, patting his shoulder with the same pitying look on his face that everyone else has; it’s a look that’s starting to make Derek want to throw punches.

            “I’m fine.”

            “It wasn’t a suggestion, son.  You can come back in the morning.”

            “I—”

            “Don’t make me call your mother.”

            “Fine.”

            “Don’t come back before 8 in the morning, you hear me? Get some sleep.”

            _Yeah, right._

***********************************************

            “I made poppy seed chicken casserole,” Mom says when he walks in the door.  “Your favorite,” she adds like Derek needs reminding.

            “I’m not hungry.”

            “Sweetheart, you have to eat something.”

            “I said I’m not fucking hungry!”

            “Derek Lee Hale, you watch your language!”

            “You think I give a shit about language?! Stiles is stuck out there with some psychopath and with every goddamn minute that passes it’s more and more likely we find a corpse to bury instead of bringing him home! So excuse the hell out of me if I’m not in the mood to sit down to some poppy seed chicken like it’s all going to be okay!”

            He storms to his room, stomping the stairs and slamming the door like a petulant child, but he doesn’t care.  He wants to hit something, shoot something, kill something—mainly Matt fucking Daelher.   The frustration and terror and guilt and fury are building to a smothering point. 

            _If we don’t get him back soon, I’m going to lose my fucking mind._

**************************************************

 

            He sleeps poorly and never for long.  He’s staring at the clock, watching the minutes go by, when his phone rings, startling him.  He sits bolt upright as he fumbles to answer it.

            _Oh please. Oh please. Oh please._

“Hello? Who is this? Stiles?”

“Not quite,” Matt’s voice taunts from the other end of the line.

            “Where is he you motherfucking—”

            “Language, Hale, language,” Matt chastises. “If you can’t keep this conversation civil I just might have to hang up.”

            “Where is he?”

            “Aw, how sweet? You miss your little fuck buddy?”

            “He’s not my fuck buddy. He—”

            “You’re right.  It’s too kind a term,” Matt agrees, and Derek can hear the smack of someone being struck and a whimper from the other end of the line.  “This cheating, whore of a—”

            “Shut up!”

            “Careful what you wish for,” Matt warns, “or you’re never going to fuck his tight little ass again.”

            He hears Stiles’ whimper from the other end of the line, and Derek doesn’t even dare think of all the things Matt’s had ample time to do to Stiles.

            “You bastard. If you’ve laid a _single_ finger on him, I will—”

            “You’ll what, Hale?” Matt demands.  “What’re you going to do?”

            “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch.”

            Matt chuckles lightly at the threat, fueling Derek’s fury. 

            “Will you?” he wonders.  “That would be awfully ambitious of you.”

            “Derek!” Stiles voice calls faintly in the background.  “Derek, help me!”

            “Stiles!”

            “Oh, you are pathetic,” Matt says with a sigh.  “Classic hero coming to save the damsel in distress—oh no, what was it Stiles told you the first time you asked if he was okay—he doesn’t need a knight in shining armor,” Matt says. 

“Let him go, Matt.”

“He doesn’t need some cocky, muscle head jock to write him sappy love notes and cut up his food for him.  He just needs a good fuck and someone to keep him in his place. Think I’ve got that covered.”

            “Don’t you touch him!”

            “Oh, but Stiles agrees with me, don’t you Stiles?” Matt asks, voice fading.  “Here, tell Hale you don’t need him.”

            “Derek?!”

            “Stiles, where are you? I’m coming okay? Me and your dad and fucking _everyone_ we can get.  Tell me where you are, Stiles.”

            “Tell him!” Matt thunders, and Derek hears the sickening sound of Stiles choking. 

            “I—don’t need—you,” Stiles tells Derek obligingly. 

            “No, Stiles. It’s okay. It’s okay. Tell me where you are.  Please tell me where you are.”

            “Again!” Matt orders.  “Tell him again.  _Clearly_ he didn’t understand you the first time.”

            “Can’t—breathe.”

            “I said _tell him_!”

            “Stiles!”

            “Don’t—need you.”

            “Jesus Christ, Matt, stop! You’re supposed to love him.  You—”

            “Exactly! _I’m_ supposed to love him. Not you, Hale! _ME_! He’s _mine_!” Matt asserts.  “And if I can’t have him, no one can!”

“Matt, I’m begging you.  Let him go.  We’ll talk it out.  We’ll figure it out!”

“He doesn’t need rescuing.  He doesn’t fucking need you, you pretentious asshole.  Tell him again, Stiles! Tell him I’m right!”

            “Don’t—need—”

            “Stiles, please!  Tell me where you are before he kills you!”

            “Derek—I—love—”

            “Me!” Matt interrupts.  “You love _me_ you unfaithful, uncaring little shit.”  Derek  hears the dull thud of flesh pounding flesh, and Stiles’ whimper of pain rips through him like a knife.  “You love _me_!”

            “No, Derek—”

            Matt’s roar of rage almost drowns out the thud of what Derek _desperately_ hopes wasn’t Stiles’ head hitting something. 

            _Maybe it was the phone hitting the ground? Maybe? Please?_

            “Stiles!”

            “You bastard! You don’t love him, Stiles! You love me!”

There’s a sharp crack Derek prays isn’t bone breaking, but Stiles’ scream of agony seems to confirm the worst. 

“You’re mine! Mine! _I_ love you!”

            “Stiles! Stiles, please answer me! Stiles!” Derek begs.

            He can barely hear anything through the phone now, and Derek’s sure his heart is going to leap from his chest in panic. 

            “You want this unfaithful son of a bitch?” Matt asks, out of breath and Derek doesn’t want to think why.  “Fine.  Come and get him.  He doesn’t mean a damn thing to me anymore.”

            “Where?!”

            “687 Terrace Circle,” Matt says, and then the line goes dead.

 

**************************************************

 

            Derek calls in the whole fucking cavalry, but he’s still the first to get to Stiles.  At least he hopes Matt wasn’t lying.  If Stiles isn’t here Derek’s going to lose what little sanity remains in him.  The house is dilapidated, that’s for sure—not that Derek’s surprised.   He should wait for someone else to arrive, someone with training and a gun and a little bit of rational thought left. He _should_ , but he doesn’t.  He just grabs his lacrosse stick out of the back seat and heads for the door of the ramshackle house. 

            “Okay, Matt, you want me here; I’m here,” Derek calls brazenly.  Matt’s most likely watching for him so stealth wasn’t his first plan.  “Now where the fuck is Stiles?”

            There’s no answer but crickets, and Derek opens the screen door on the front of the house. 

            “Stiles?!”

            _Please be here. Please be here. Please be here._

His wish is granted as he rounds the corner to see a pair of converse-clad feet sticking out from behind a wall.

            “Stiles!”

            Derek’s chest clenches at the sight that awaits him, gut heaving at the horrific scene.

            “No,” he wails as his knees buckle.  “No, no, no, no!”

            Stiles is broken and bloodied, so much worse than when Derek found him all those weeks ago.  Both his arms and one leg lie out at unnatural angles.  His naked torso is covered in welts and bruises from bat and belt.  His face is a terrible mess of torn flesh. 

            But worst of all, the sight that’s going to haunt Derek every day for the rest of his fucking life, is the sight of Stiles’ once-sparkling, warm, brown eyes, now hemorrhaged and death-clouded, staring unseeing at the rotting ceiling above his lifeless body.

            “Stiles!” Derek sobs, dropping to his knees beside the still form.  “Stiles, no! Wake up, please wake up!”

            _I shouldn’t shake him so hard.  I’ll hurt him worse._

_But he has to wake up. He has to._

_Please, stiles. Don’t be dead. You can’t be dead._

_Wake up._

_Please just wake up._

But he doesn’t.

            Not for Derek’s cries, or his father’s shrieks of aggrieved agony, or for the Coroner who declares him dead as they drag Derek and the Sheriff from the body of a boy they both love beyond words or reason.

            A boy they’ve now lost forever.

 

**********************************************************

 

            It rains the day they lay Stiles in the ground, and Derek finds it only fitting.  He remembers the sunshine of the afternoon when they buried Dad, Noah, and Madison.   It had been all wrong, wrong that the world could looks bright and birds could sing with them gone.  Now the cold, stinging rain washes away the tears and thunder rolls in the distance.  The preacher talks of Stiles’ spirit and love; laments a life taken too soon; and prays that those left behind find a peace Derek knows he’s never going to get. 

            He lingers even as the ceremony disperses, watching sadly as the sheriff refuses to be moved from the graveside as they lower his son down into the earth.  Derek still doesn’t know what to say to him, but he can’t let him bear the grief of this final goodbye alone.  He approaches slowly, laying a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder, completely unprepared for the older man to turn and shove him to the ground with a roar of fury.

            “You did this!” he rages, lunging for Derek, stopped only by the two deputies who appear from nowhere and hold him back.  “This is _your_ fault! Matt only got worse because of you! You fueled the abuse! It was you! You’re the reason he’s dead!”

            “I—I—”

            _I can’t argue with that. I can’t.  Because it’s all true._

“I’m sorry; I thought—I thought we could protect him! I just wanted to help!”

            “You didn’t just _think_ you could protect him, you promised! You promised to protect him! We promised to protect him! And we didn’t! How the fuck do you plan to live with that? How?!”

            _I honestly don’t know if I can._

 

 

************************************************************

 

            The drive through the large iron gates to the corner of the cemetery Derek knows like the back of his hand doesn’t take long.  He drops off some flowers for Madison, Noah, and Dad.  He says hello to Mrs. Stilinski and swaps the yellow daisies for orange ones.  Stiles gets roses, and Derek doesn’t give a fuck how cliché it is.  He should’ve brought Stiles flowers every time he saw him, but he never did, not even for dates, because he was afraid it was too cheesy or emasculating or weird.  Leaving the lively blooms on a cold stone makes him regret his silly uncertainty—about so many things, not just this—to the point that it _aches_ in his bones.

            “Hey,” he greets.  “Thought we’d do dinner.”

            He leans against the cold stone as he takes out his own sesame chicken and sits Stiles’ lo mein to the side.  They still look at him like he’s crazy when he orders for two, and the groundskeeper keeps reminding him that it attracts animals, but Derek doesn’t care.  He can’t go in there and order for one any more than he can order at Arby’s and not get extra curly fries or buy just one ticket to the Alt-J concert this weekend. 

            He can’t let go.

            He’s not sure he’ll ever let go.

            Some days he’s pretty sure his best bet is to just go drink himself into oblivion with the last living member of the Stilinski family, numb the loneliness and guilt and pain until it fades into nothing. 

            _I bet he’d smile when he poured me the glass. Hell, maybe he’d just hand me the bottle._

Derek must fall asleep at the grave because the next thing he knows it’s all dark and someone’s shaking him awake.

            “Derek, come on! Wake up! Seriously!”

            _Wait…I know that voice…That’s—it can’t be. Can it? Was I dreaming?_

_Oh please. Oh please. Oh please._

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTICE: Since I've apparently inadvertantly upset people, THIS IS A NIGHTMARE. I thought the last line suggested it enough, but maybe I just had my author goggles on for it? Anywho, last chapter soon as I can guys :p 
> 
> sorry we're not sorry?
> 
> It was all Codarra's idea okay? *points finger and runs away leaving the one who outlined this to fend for himself*


	15. chapter 15 - Stiles

            “Did you sleep at all last night?” Stiles wonders when he wakes to find Derek sitting at his desk for the third morning in a row.

            Derek’s nightmares have been steadily worsening, and last night’s left him screaming and crying and just about out of his mind.  He tries to say they have nothing to do with Matt, but Stiles hears the way Derek screams his name in terror before he wakes.   On the one hand, trying to calm and reassure Derek forces Stiles to calm and reassure himself as well.   On the other hand, this hypervigilence and paranoia so overwhelming that nothing can quell the fear for long.  This week has taken a visible toll on Stiles, Derek, and Dad.  There’s no sign of Matt past some surveillance footage here and there from days ago.  Stiles hopes fervently that Matt just cut his losses and let it go, but he knows better.

            _Matt never lets anything go._

“I slept a little,” Derek replies.  “I’m fine.”

            “You know I—”

            “Please don’t try to convince me not to worry,” Derek says tiredly.  “We both know Matt’s out there and what he’s capable of.”

            “He’s not going to get to me again,” Stiles persists.

            “You’re right,” Derek agrees.  “Over my dead body will he so much as lay a finger on you, but—”

            “Don’t say shit like that.”

_Don’t talk about your fucking dead body, okay? Don’t remind me that my own safety isn’t all that’s at stake.  I’ll lose my damn mind if you or Dad gets hurt trying to protect me._

            “What? I’m serious, Stiles. I won’t let him—”

            “Can we not talk about him?” Stiles says as he climbs out of bed. “Please?”

            “I can’t think about anything else,” Derek admits wearily.

            “Bet I know how to get your mind off it,” Stiles offers, kneading at Derek’s tense shoulders.

            “Stiles—”

            He mouths at Derek’s neck as he continues to massage the muscles.  Derek relaxes under the touch, and Stiles smiles in victory when he turns his head to bring their lips together.  The pace picks up more quickly than usual, as though Derek wants to touch every inch of Stiles he can reach.  Stiles is equally eager, wanting more than anything to drown out the anxiety with ecstasy.  He all but rips Derek’s shirt off, tossing it to the side as they topple onto the bed, jarring the shelf behind it against the wall, though Derek catches the picture frame that topples before it hits the floor.

            “So good with your hands,” Stiles jokes.

            “Think so?” Derek wonders, sliding one down to palm at Stiles through his pajama bottoms. 

            “Mmmmmhmmm,” Stiles answers into the kiss that accompanies the exquisite friction. 

            “Stiles?! I thought I heard—”

            Dad freezes just inside the bedroom, completely dumbstruck.  Stiles flails as Derek tries to get to his feet, the result being that Derek falls to the floor with a painful thud.

            “Dad, we—uh—we—uh—”

            “Mr. Stilinski, I—we can—I can—explain—”

            Stiles understands the slight tremor in Derek’s voice when he realizes Dad’s hand is still hovered over his holstered gun. 

            “No—I—I didn’t mean,” Dad says, now blushing the same shade of scarlet as Derek and Stiles.  “I heard a noise and I thought—”

            “Just—we—um—hit the shelf a little, but—we’re good.  Fine. Not Matt.”

            “Right, well, I—I’ll be downstairs if you need me for anything just—could you _not_? We’re in the middle of a damn manhunt for a guy who wants to kill you.  I do not need to worry about frisky teenagers in my house who—”

            “Yeah, sorry, keep the teenage hormones in check. Got it.  Can we please for the love of God end the most embarrassing moment of my life now?”

            _So I can melt into the floor and never show my mortified face again._

“Most embarrassing moment of your life?” Dad wonders.  “I dunno, kiddo, remember when you were thirteen and—”

            “Oh my _God,_ Dad, go!”

            His father chuckles as he turns to leave.

            “New rule,” he adds. “Door stays open; got it?”

            “Sure. Whatever. Just go.”

            “So,” Derek says, breaking the awkward silence that follows Dad’s retreat. “What happened when you were thirteen?”

            “Not funny,” Stiles says, chucking a pillow at Derek as a blush rises in his cheeks.

 

***********************************************************

 

            “Hello?” Stiles says, answering the phone.

            “Hey, it’s me,” Derek replies.  “Just got off so I’m headed over.  Need anything?”

            “You want to pick us up some Chinese maybe?” Stiles wonders.  “We’ve got some leftovers, but I’m not really in the mood for round three of chili.”

            “Yeah, sure. Lo mein?”

            “What else?” Stiles replies, smiling that Derek knows his order and will probably get extra crab rangoon for Stiles, too. 

“Okay, see ya soon.”

 “I love you, Stiles, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles replies, and thinks for just a moment of leaving it Han Solo style before echoing, “Love you too.”

When Stiles meets him at the door twenty minutes later, Derek’s holding not only their dinner but also half a dozen roses.  Stiles quirks an eyebrow.

“They’re for you,” Derek says. 

“What’s the occasion?” Stiles wonders.

“Just—‘cause,” Derek replies with a shrug, but Stiles feels like there’s more to the story; he wracks his brain trying to think of some event or anniversary he may have forgotten, but he can’t think of anything.  “If it’s too cheesy, you don’t have to—”

“No, they’re awesome,” Stiles assures, taking them from Derek with a kiss.  “Thanks.”

Stiles goes to find a vase as Derek sets out dinner on the table.  He did get extra rangoon, and Stiles grins as he sets the flowers on the table and grabs one.  Derek’s quiet, which isn’t so unusual for the past couple of days, but there’s a melancholy in his face that Stiles doesn’t like.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Huh?” Derek wonders.

“I said are you okay?” Stiles repeats.  “Something bothering you maybe?”

“No, just—stressed.”

“I know what you’re like stressed, Derek,” Stiles replies.  “You were stressed before the trial, this is—something’s worrying the hell out of you.”

“Matt’s still unaccounted for, of course I’m worried.”

“Yeah, but—I dunno, maybe I’m reading too much into it.  You just seem—”

“I keep dreaming you die, okay?” Derek says sharply, like the words forced themselves out despite his effort to restrain them.  “The nightmares are—it’s that I lose you, and I don’t want to lose you, Stiles. I can’t. After everything that’s happened, if you—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles soothes, moving to grab Derek’s hand.  “I’m right here, dude.  I’m just fine, and about to stuff myself with awesome Chinese and admire flowers my boyfriend brought me because he is the most awesome guy I have ever met,” Stiles continues, punctuating the sentence with a soft kiss.  “And then I just might have to show said boyfriend a little extra appreciation once we’re done,” he adds with a grin and another kiss that Derek smiles back into. 

“You’re Dad’s home,” he reminds.

“Hey, he said ‘open door’ not ‘no sex’.  If the man wants to hear everything we—”

“ _Stiles_ —”

“Kidding, I’m kidding.  He leaves for work at seven.”

 

**********************************************************

 

Stiles falls asleep sated and safe, head on Derek’s chest.  He knows the safety is largely an illusion, but there’s no way to feel alone or vulnerable with the weight of Derek’s arms around him, holding him close like he’ll never let go.   He does let go though sometime in the wee hours of the morning, and Stiles whines in protest.

“Bathroom,” Derek mumbles, and Stiles huffs and rolls over off Derek so he can get up.

He dozes off again almost immediately, but wakes when Derek returns, jumping on the bed and jostling Stiles.

“Ugh, Derek,” he whines.  “It’s like three am; what’re you—”

His sentence chokes off as a hand grabs his throat, and he flails against the crushing pressure to his windpipe. 

“I should’ve fucking known you’d be whoring yourself out to him,” Matt spits.  “You worthless little shit!”

Stiles rolls, unseating Matt and they topple to the floor.  Matt still lands on top of Stiles, slamming his head back into the floor so hard the world swims.  Something cold and metallic connects hard with the side of Stiles face and he see stars as blood starts to flow from the wound. 

            _Is that a gun? Oh God please don’t let him have a gun._

He’s blinded just a moment as the lights flick on and Derek rushes at Matt.  Matt lets go of Stiles and turns, trying to get up to his feet as he raises the gun in his hand and fires a shot that hits the floor at Derek’s feet.

“You stay the fuck back!” Matt orders.

“Matt, don’t,” Stiles pleads, nearly sobbing at the sight of Matt holding Derek at gunpoint.

_It’s my fault. I never should’ve dragged Derek into this.  This was never his problem.  Now my fucking psychopathic ex is going to shoot him._

“Please, Matt, I’m begging you.”

“What the hell do you want?” Derek demands.  “Why would you come here?”

“I came for Stiles,” Matt replies simply.  “What else could I want?”

“Matt, I—” Stiles begins, but Matt interrupts him as he continues.

“You know you belong with me, Stiles  How could you forget that?”

“Maybe because you’re a sadistic, psychopathic—”

“No, no,” Matt protests over Derek’s reply. “That’s just what they want you to think, Stiles!  They’re tricking you.  They’re turning you against me.”

“Matt, you nearly killed me; you hurt me you—”

“Because _he_ was trying to take you away from me!” Matt says, jabbing the gun in Derek’s direction and sending yet another jolt of fear through Stiles.  “I won’t let them take you away from me.  Not this bastard, or your Dad, or McCall; I swear to God I’ll kill _anyone_ who would take you away from me. I—”

“You really expect me to think you came here to get me so that we could ride off into the sunset?” Stiles asks incredulously.

“You know you want to,” Matt insists.  “You know it even if you won’t admit it.  You want to get away from them, from this life, this town; I can take you away, Stiles. I still love you, Stiles, after everything,” Matt goes on. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and his hands tremble more every minute.  What’s scariest though is that his eyes are the most wild and crazed Stiles has ever seen them, like an animal caught in a trap, willing to do anything to get out.

  “I know you didn’t want to get me in trouble,” Matt claims.  “I know they made you say all those things.  You didn’t have a choice.  It’s okay, but now—now you can be with me, where you belong. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

 “Whatever it takes?”

He nods, cocking the gun in his hand, sending a chill of terror down Stiles’ spine. 

“Whatever it takes,” he replies steadily, fury rising on his face again as he turn back to Derek.

“Don’t!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Matt demands.  “You can’t love him, Stiles.  Tell me you don’t.  You love _me._ You’re _mine._ ”

 “Yeah, Matt,” Stiles agrees because this is a risk he can’t take.  “Yeah, I love you.   Of course I do, that’s why—if you kill him they’ll never let us go.  You’ll be on all the new channels for murder.”

“We can hide. We’ll run,” Matt says.  “I know how.  I’ve been dodging the cops ever since—”

“Then you don’t have to kill him,” Stiles says.  “We can just go.  He can tell them all what happened, that I—that I wanted to go with you.   Tell them their plan didn’t work.  That I still love you.”

            Matt barks out a triumphant laugh that makes Stiles jump. 

            “See, Hale? He doesn’t love you.  He doesn’t need you.   Tell him, Stiles.”

            There is absolute heartbreak in Derek’s eyes when Stiles meets them.

            _I’m so sorry, Derek. I’m so sorry you’re in the middle of this.  Don’t hate me for playing along. I don’t know what else to do._

“I don’t need you,” Stiles says, struggling to keep his voice even, and Derek actually flinches at the words like Stiles dealt a physical blow.  “I love Matt.  I’m going with Matt.  Tell them—tell them not to follow us,” he goes on, knowing Derek will run for help the moment he can and praying they follow fast enough to get Stiles away from Matt in one piece.

            “Tie him up,” Matt instructs, “or he’ll send them after us for sure.”

            “Yeah, good idea,” Stiles agrees. 

            “Stiles, don’t do this,” Derek pleads.  “Don’t—you don’t—don’t do this for me.”

            “I’m not,” Stiles asserts, hoping the words don’t sound as forced as they feel.  “I’m doing it for Matt.  I love Matt.”

            “No, you don’t, Stiles. You don’t. You can’t—he’ll _kill_ you, Stiles.”

            “You shut the fuck up!” Matt rages, bringing the butt of the gun down hard on Derek’s temple, and immediately blood gushes out.  “I never meant to hurt him! That was your fault, Hale! You made me doubt him. You made me—”

            “ _I_ made you? You are so fucked in the head, you sick bastard.  _You_ are the one who beat him and raped him and—”

            “Shut up!” Matt thunders, raining down blows and shoving Stiles away as he tries desperately to hold Matt back.  “Don’t you _dare_ —you don’t know anything about us! _I_ was there for him.  _I_ was there when his dad got shitfaced. _I_ helped him study for chemistry and sat through detention with him and made sure no one could get close enough to hurt him.  I protected him!  I love him! He’s mine! He belongs with me!”

            “He loves you?”

            “Yes!”

            “Then why d’you need threats and blackmail to keep him?”

            “I don’t—I didn’t—I—I—”

Matt’s stammering stops as he takes a step back, looking down at Derek’s bloodied face with nothing but pure, unadultered loathing.  He raises the gun up again, and Stiles can’t stop himself jumping between them.

“No!”

“Get out of the way, Stiles.”

“You can’t shoot him.”

Matt’s eyes come up to meet Stiles, fury burning even brighter.

“You do love him,” Matt accuses.  “You son of a bitch, you—”

“No, I don’t,” Stiles lies.  “I don’t need him, Matt.  No one does, but I—I want to do it myself,” he requests, reaching out a hand to take the gun.  “For you, and—and for me—I want him to pay for trying to turn me against you.  Please. Let me do it and then—then you’ll know, once and for all, you’re the one I want to be with.”

Matt studies him a moment or two, clearly skeptical of the plan, but he doesn’t immediately refuse it.  Stiles takes a step toward him, emboldened by this plan his mouth enacted before his brain agreed; it’s a decent option all things considered.  Since Derek seems dead set against just letting Stiles leave with Matt.  Stiles forces a smile and leans in for a kiss, ignoring the sick feeling in his gut at the gesture.  Matt meets Stiles’ lips with as much enthusiasm and force as ever.

“Please?” Stiles requests again. “Let me? I don’t ever want you to doubt what I’d do for you. I love you, Matt. You believe me, don’t you?”

“I want to believe you,” Matt says.  “So show me.”

He takes Stiles’ hand and passes him the gun as he leans in for another kiss. 

The grin on his face at the prospect of watching Derek die is beyond bone-chilling.  Stiles doesn’t hesitate once the cold metal is in his hand.  He shoves Matt back just enough to give him time to get the gun up and fire a shot straight into Matt’s torso.  The look of betrayal and confusion on Matt’s face is almost instantly overshadowed with rage.  He lunges at Stiles, despite the growing stain of scarlet on his abdomen, but Stiles meets the lunge with a punch that sends Matt sprawling backwards and follows it with another than lands him flat on his back.  He jumps on Matt, casting the gun aside as he connects his fists with every inch of Matt he can reach.

“You possessive, psychotic, sadistic, abusive asshole! I hate you! I hate you so fucking much! You fucked up my whole fucking life!” 

Matt’s not fighting back anymore, just whimpering as Stiles vents his pent up rage; Stiles hands close around Matt’s throat, and a thrill of triumph runs thorough Stiles at the realization of just how entirely the roles have finally, _finally_ been reversed. 

“Stiles—please—”

“I _despise_ you,” he snarls as he tightens his grip to choke off the words.  “I haven’t loved you in a long time, Matt; I fucking _loathe_ you.”

“Stiles—”

“Stop,” Derek’s voice breaks through the haze of fury as his hands close around Stiles’ wrists and try to pull them back.

_How did you get out of the duct tape so fast? Or have I been wailing on Matt that long? It doesn’t matter. I’m not letting go._

“No! He was going to kill you! He—he put me through hell,” Stiles replies as Derek succeeds in pulling his hands away and Matt sucks in air.  “He’ll escape again.  He’ll hurt people. I’m not—he can’t—”

“This isn’t you, Stiles. It’s not.  He deserves it; he does; I know, but you don’t deserve what it would do to you to kill him.”

The truth in Derek’s words and the full weight of what’s happening and what Stiles really, truly wants to do to Matt comes rushing in, and Stiles all but collapses against Derek as he pulls him away from Matt, soothing and shushing as Stiles babbles incoherent lamentations.

_I know we should give him back to the cops.  I know I shouldn’t kill him, but I want to.  Jail isn’t enough.  It doesn’t erase the shit he’s put me through.  He got away once. He would’ve ruined everything we’ve built back. He’s—he’s—I want him dead or he’ll fucking be there in the back of my mind until the day I die._

The sound of the door smashing in downstairs makes them both jump. 

“Here!” Derek shouts.  “Up here!”

Three deputies burst into the room, guns drawn.     

“We’re okay,” Derek assures them as one deputy kneels next to Stiles and Derek while the other two approach Matt where he lies on the floor.

Stiles can see now that Matt’s hand is outstretched toward the gun Stiles discarded on the floor. 

“Don’t even _think_ about it Daehler!” Deputy Wilson barks.  “One more inch and—”

Matt swipes for the gun, ignoring the warning. 

“You can’t take him—”

He barely raises it from the floor before the shots ring out, riddling Matt’s beaten body with bullets.  Derek grabs Stiles face, turning him from the sight, holding him so tight it hurts, but Stiles grips back just as firmly. 

_Safe now._

_We’re safe._

_We’re okay._

**************************************************

 

            “Hey, Mom,” Stiles says as he adds his daises to the dahlias already in her vase.  “I see Dad’s been by.  Did he tell you about Matt?”

            He sits with a sigh, leaning back against the headstone. 

            “I was kinda scared I’d be able to see his grave from here,” he admits.  “Not that it’d keep me from coming or anything, but it’d be—ya know—kinda shitty—I mean, uh, crappy.  Kinda crappy.”

            It turns out the rise in the hill and the regal Whittemore mausoleum block the mound of fresh earth covering Matt’s remains quite nicely.  Stiles loves that this remains the one place Matt never did ruin for him. 

            “So Derek starts rookie school on Monday,” Stiles tells her.  “He’s so excited, but he thinks he’s going to fuck it up.” Stiles rolls his eyes.  “He’s not though; he’s gonna be awesome, best deputy the department’s had since dad started, you wait and see.”

            Stiles is quiet a moment more before he confesses quietly, “I used to worry sometimes he’ll outgrow me, ya know? Being a year older and starting a job instead of school and all that.  I dunno—I guess—is it really lame to say the idea of losing him with Matt last week made me realize I don’t want to? Like ever? And not just—not in the don’t-want-him-to-die kind of way.  I think maybe he’s it? Is that dumb? I mean I turn eighteen at the end of the month.  We’re young but not any younger than you and Dad, and you guys turned out okay.”

            He sighs, picking at the grass beneath him. 

            “I guess I’m getting ahead of myself,” he supposes.  “I just—I wish you could meet him, Mom.  You’d like him; you really would.  I know it. He—”

Stiles pauses as footsteps approach, standing as Derek comes up slowly.

“Hi, Mrs. S,” he says as he grabs Stiles’ hand.  “Sorry to steal Stiles away, but those dinner reservations were for seven and—”

“And I tend to ramble,” Stiles interrupts.  “She knows; trust me.”

“I can call and push the reservation back if you want,” Derek offers.

“Nah,” he replies.  “It’s okay. I mostly just wanted to make sure her flowers were good. Come on,” he beckons, tugging at Derek’s hand.  “I’m starving.”

_Besides, sooner we go to dinner, the sooner we’re home. Dad’s on night shift so we’ve got the house all to ourselves._

 

*************************************************

           

 

 

 

           

 

             

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks SO MUCH for staying along for the ride!! 
> 
> As always, feel free to shoot me and ask or email any time, prompt or conversationally :) I love talking to folks!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you're ever in the neighborhood, you can find me on tumblr as packdontendwithblood or shoot me an email at arebutvagueshadows@gmail.com


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